


An Empire of Fire and Blood: The Dragon Resurgent

by StrangerInTheAlps7



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, More characters to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangerInTheAlps7/pseuds/StrangerInTheAlps7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Last Winter fades as spring returns to the broken lands of Westeros. From the ash, an empire will rise...</p><p>I am plotting out this first part of my story on a rather epic scale (100K +) so I will obviously be adding more characters from canon, however, I don't want to spoil their triumphant returns by adding them to the caption. </p><p>I must stress this with the up-most sincerity: I do not own any of this, be it from GRRM or any other work of a different medium that I shameless borrow from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sacrifce

Prelude: The Sacrifice

Though a blanket of fog as pale as fresh milk hung thick in the air, the haggard boatman navigated the narrowing canal with an almost inhuman adeptness. A lifetime of monotony etched the anarchic waterways into his memory. His wiry grey hair, matted with filth, hung over his eyes and fell to the small of his back. Bloodied, brown gums smiled from within his knotted beard. At first glance, it appeared as though a corpse captained this rickety punt. However, the man’s thick arms, covered in a mosaic of purple liver spots and chaffing scabs, hoisted the pole quickly from one side to the other, propelling the boat silently along the water’s surface.

No matter how low the profession, Noho Dimittis could not help but respect a man who truly mastered his craft. Though the dagger of life slowly bled him, it could not cut away the boatman’s calling. With pole in hand, this decrypted old man gracefully danced upon the brackish water as if dueling a dozen bravos.

 _A simple life_ , Noho thought, bitterly. _The kind of life duty and fate took from me_. As the fourth son of a mediocre clerk, no one ever expected Noho to enter the employ of the Iron Bank. His father—an almost absurdly simple man—never showed the slightest aptitude for figures. However, he did cook the spiciest squid, fried a to golden crisp in pepper oil and fire powder, served so hot that it burnt the tips of your fingers. When Noho was but a babe, a gluttonous banker loved his father’s fiery fair so much that he offered him a clerksmanship on the condition that he handed over the recipe. Thus, the moment his father put down the shucking knife and picked up the abacus, the cruel wheels of destiny began to turn. His father could barely count above fifty; however, a career within the great Iron Bank carried with it a standing that dwarfed that of a fishmonger. For the sake of the family name, society expected the eldest to follow the father into such a profession. With three brothers ahead of him, thankfully, Noho was left to labor upon the docks of Ragman’s Harbor in peace, filling his days with salt and sweat. While his upstart family dressed in their motely, dancing like fools for their social betters, Noho drank from the very blood of Braavos as he mingled amongst the brewers, bakers, beggars and whores that brought the city to life.

 _I gave up a boyhood of bliss for a lifetime of compromise._ In time, both his father and eldest brother died beneath the hooves of the pale male—a plague contracted while representing the Bank’s interests in the Far East. Not two weeks later, the city guard found the bloated corpses of his two other brothers afloat in the Maiden’s Fountain. The memory of his male kin brought a bitter taste to his mouth. _Two sheep that thought themselves shepherds, and two dogs who thought they could fight amongst the wolves._ Only Noho’s love for his mother and three young sisters kept him from stowing aboard a Volantese galley bound far away from these shackles of responsibility. To feed them, Noho abandoned the jubilant squalor of freedom for the golden cage of servitude.

However, where his witless father labored, Noho excelled. When he first entered their employ at the age of ten and five, the Iron Bank made him a lowly pawnshop clerk. Nonetheless, even then, be it a blessing or a curse, his rise—and perhaps fall—appeared preordained. He had always possessed the genius and natural ruthlessness required for the noble art of finance, yet he lacked any interest in putting the brush to canvas. Fate, unfortunately, forced his hand. Rather then swindling the lowly paupers of Whaler’s Waif, he now looted the pockets of the princely and powerful from across the known world. By his twentieth name day, Noho’s meteoric rise found him at the head of the prestigious Qarthean Branch, becoming the youngest branch governor in the Bank’s history. Though by that time his dear mother and sisters had grown fat, their myrish silk dresses bursting at the seams, Noho himself felt empty. At first, he convinced himself that this status and finery was all a good bit of mummery—a costume meant to mock the vapid elite he always despised. Thus, he played his part upon the stage. He wore fine cloaks soaked in purple dye. He styled his beard into a thin rope of hair, adorning it with golden ringlets. He allowed his once youthful muscle to wane into a wiry frame. The more time that past, however, the harder it became for Noho to shed this façade. His purple cloak now weighed heavy upon his shoulders. His beard grew long and knotted. Though he gorged himself on the finest of foods, he remained gaunt. The costume now became his skin.

 _And then they sent me across the Narrow Sea_ , Noho recalled, _into the court of that whore, pleading for coppers like a beggar_. In truth, Noho nearly rejoiced when The Mother of Bastards refused to pay her royal debts. He departed that festering rat’s nest of a capital guided by the scared mantra shared amongst his brothers—“the Iron Bank will have its due.” Dreams of Cersei Lannister screaming in agony, her once beautiful body broken upon the rack, filled his nights as he sailed back towards the Titan’s embrace.

 _Dreams that turned to nightmares when winter woke the dead_.

The pole boat slowed as its decrypted captain made for a make shift dock situated along one of the countless forgotten canals that littered the ghettos of Braavos. Noho stood, motioning for his two companions to follow. Bravos guarded him this night and Noho paid handsomely for both their swords and their discretion. Turning to the boatman, he paid the withered bag of flesh two gold pieces—a king’s ransom to such a broken thing. A thrifty man by nature, Noho did not part with gold lightly. However, given the circumstances, even the lowest of vermin needed to remain ignorant of his purpose. _If whispers of the Iron Conclave seeped into the streets of Braavos, the city would devour itself._ The Conclave had not been called since the Band of Nine collapsed into chaos and infighting almost half a century ago. Convened only in the direst of times, the pronouncements handed down by the Conclave always assured the Iron Bank’s survival—but not without a cost.

Stepping from the rotted wood of the boat onto the wet cobblestoned shore, Noho glanced down at the putrid brown concoction below. This deep into the filth of Braavos, human waste and dead fish filled the canals rather than the salt water emanating from the lagoon. As he looked forward, Noho barely managed to make out the sunken row of houses, sprouting forth like diseased algae lining the edge of a pond. With great care, he began walking upon the winding path of slick stone towards his destination. As it did while upon the boat, the dense fog continued to blind him. Noho kept one hand outstretched and touching the wet brick of the houses so as to not unwittingly fall into cesspool to the other side of him. _An inconvenient route_ , he thought, _but a necessary one lest all the eyes of Braavos witness the Iron Bank parading down the Street of Pools._

He felt a sudden pain beneath his ribs, as if his kidneys threatened to burst. _My very body aches at this betrayal, but the Iron Bank must survive._

As he marched towards his battle, thoughts of bribes and ballots followed his every step. _Our cause, along with our gold, died with Stannis—surely they will realize this._ Noho remembered weeping over the letters baring the news; however, he did not mourn for the man. T _hat arrogant fool Massey assured us that Stannis died honorably while fighting the dead. As if we cared._ Despite the stifling humidity that accompanied the fog, an involuntary shiver danced across Noho’ skin. _Demons came with the winter and Dragons now come with the spring._ Though many within the Iron Bank still frothed and bellowed for the settling of debts, Noho knew that no legion of sellswords could defeat a dragon, let alone three united under King and Queen.

 _Allor Fregar will convince his lackeys to submit to an “honorable peace,”_ Noho repeated to himself. Of all the votes he bought within the Conclave, Allor Fregar’s vote provided the keystone for his plot. As the brother to the current Sealord, Allor possessed great clout amongst the sycophants that littered the ranks of the Iron Bank. _After his blunder with Stannis, Tycho’s vote holds little sway,_ Noho ruminated, _only Allor’s support can guarantee the Bank’s solvency._

With survival came sacrifice, however, and Noho did not try to fool himself otherwise. _The Ibbenese branch will close, along with Pentos, Myr, and most likely Voltanis, and our holdings in Qarth and Yin Ti will almost certain dwindle considerably._ Noho’s feet began to feel heavy beneath him. _The Iron Bank will endure, nonetheless._

He inhaled quickly, greedily sucking air in a futile attempt to fill his lungs— _we will swallow our pride and except the meager payments offered by those white-haired monsters born of incest._ His feet began to drag as his breath grew more ragged, _we…we…we will have peace._

His knees buckled, collapsing his frail body against the side of a brick shanty. He placed his shaking fingers to his mouth, gingerly grazing them across his lips— _blood_.

“Can you see, old man?” a voiced whispered, as graceful as a bow to strings.

“Who…who’s there?” Noho managed to gasp through the cascade of crimson that now flowed hot and wet down his chin.

“Can you see, old man?” the angelic voice simply repeated.

The curtain of fog began to dissipate, revealing a figure mere feet from where Noho now waited to die. Even as his vision blurred, the demon’s image bore into Noho’s mind. With his hulking arms remaining outstretched, the Demon welcomed Noho into the sweet embrace of Death. _He even smiles_. From amongst the gnarled grey thicket of wiry hair, Noho’s waning eyes spotted a toothless grin.

“My…bravos…”

“Met the Many-Faced God upon the dock not minutes ago.”

 _Impossible._ Cold beads of sweat now mingled with the warm blood as the wave of realization knocked Noho to his knees. Delirious with pain and desperation, Noho nearly laughed. _The desolation of the mighty Iron Bank, brought on by a cutthroat boatman._

“why…” Noho breathed, his wasting body now sprawled across the soiled cobblestone.

“The circle must be completed.”

_What use are riddles to a dying man, you monster?_

“The Dragons must go to war.” The demon simply stated, his voice sweeter than any song.

In his final moments, Noho recalled tales he once heard from the battlefield—tales of men, with swords through their guts, summoning the very power of the gods for one last charge down the gullet of their enemies. _I must stand…I must fight… Braavos cannot fall_. As Noho’s life withered away, the gods remained silent.

“You won’t succeed…I am but one vote…the Conclave will still seek peace…”

Once again, a cloak of fog descended upon Noho and his killer. The cool night mist washed away the demon's mangled mane, revealing soft tawny skin. A jet-black goatee, as thin as a stiletto, now ran down his pronounced chin. The demon gave him a dazzling smile.

“I will ask you once more, old man. Can you see?”

_I see Allor Fregar._

The wraith bowed his head, solemnly. “The circle must be completed.”

The fog grew heavy and then the world went black.


	2. Daenerys I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While there are a lot of "current events" from the various wars/winters featured in GRRM's series, I, like GRRM, plan on sprinkling in the history as I go along. Basically, my fanfic begins with the "Targaryen Restoration"--a rather precarious post-war and post-winter period in Westeros. Out of respect for GRRM (and partly out of fear), The Epic Finale Against the Others will only be referenced (though fairly often) in my fanfic. Thematically, I really admire how GRRM's work tackles the harsh reality of war. He doesn't present us with the traditional "the maiden-saving forces of Good vs. maiden-eating ogres of Evil." Instead, ASoIaF depicts brutal and bloody struggles where it becomes increasingly difficult to determine which side, if any, possesses even an inkling of moral superiority. Unfortunately, it appears as though this winning formula will be thrown out the window when GRRM finally gets to the final battle against the Others, who for all intents and purposes serve as GRRM's equivalent to Tolkien's Orcish Horde. What makes war truly horrific is that--no matter how just the cause or how evil the enemy--man must kill his fellow man. That said, the sheer scope of death that took place on the Wall will continue to both haunt and partly define those who managed to survive it. 
> 
> Though this fanfic is ultimately an unapologetic shipping for Jon/Dany, shipping will come second to story-telling (or my attempt at story telling).

Dragons wrought from gold and gemstone coiled around her silver blond hair. Wings cast from fine silver glistened like night stars amidst the dim light of the Great Hall. The eyes of her house’s sigil—masterfully etched into ivory, onyx, and jade—cowed her lords into submission. Whether enraptured by her beauty or fearful of her rage, all men bowed to the dragon.

Yet the crown weighted heavy upon her head. Thankfully the chair—built from the blood of battle and the spoils war—did not bare its fangs, though the Mother of Dragons still felt ill at ease when she sat the Iron Throne. She hated how the embrace of the weathered steel shot shivers down her spines. Though forged in the fires of Balerion the Dread, Aegon The First’s throne always felt eerily cold upon her porcelain skin. She could already feel the ache in her shoulders and the tightness in her neck as the weight of the realm barred down upon her.

Although her beauty held their gaze, Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen knew that many still cursed her name. _They smile and laugh, all the while sharpening their swords._ Her body sat rigidly against the back of the unyielding throne, but she feigned comfort with smiles and warm words. _We must make it appear as though this damned chair is a part of us, dear Egg, less we let them take it from us again._ She craned her aching neck to her right, looking upon her nephew, who only had eyes for the dough-eyed princess that bounced from his lap. Aegon Targaryen VI, the Prince Returned and King of Westeros, sat on his pillows and doted upon his daughter, happily leaving the pandering and politics to Dany. Dany likened court to the barbarity of war—a monotonous boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. However, she could not begrudge her nephew for showering his princess with affection. _It is my turn, after all_ , she thought, _even a father should receive a gift on his daughter’s name day._

Dany remember the first time she met her nephew and king. In the Usurper’s own solar, looking out over the raging waves of Shipbreaker Bay, House Targaryen made peace. Apparently, the puppeteers that pulled their strings, making the dragons dance about in their game of thrones, intended for Aegon to take her as his wife in the tradition of Old Valyeria. The Cheese Merchant, the Spider, and Grey Griffin all assured Aegon that she would be complacent to such an arrangement. When she arrived upon the Stormland’s weather-beaten shores, she received her nephew graciously, drank his wine, ate his food, and to the horror of his wise counselors, steadfastly refused his marriage proposal. Dany still remembered how the late Jon Connington fumed with indignation, the flecks of grey decay falling like tainted snow upon the table. By then, the grey scale had all but taken him, and though bright red patches of hair sprouted defiantly from his disease-ridden skin, his pale eyes stared out from the grey waste without seeing. He seethed with accusations of usurpation, with the desecration of his beloved Silver Prince’s memory, all while his King sat calmly, never looking away from his aunt. Then, without regard for his own health, Aegon gently clutched the rotting mass of grey flesh that was once his surrogate father’s hand.

 

 _“Be clam, Lord Cottington.”_ She remembered him saying, soothing his ailing lord with a warm smile, “ _She does not deny me a throne, only a place in her bed.”_

Perhaps Aegon saw the hurt in her amethyst eyes on that day, the desecration of her womb, or scars that riddle her body just below the skin. If he did, Aegon never mentioned it, never broaching the subject of her past without her unequivocal approval. He accepted without protest that his aunt would not sell herself like a common whore for another crown.

By the time the hour the wolf struck and the moon hung high above Storms End, Rhagar’s kin agreed to rule Westeros as King and Queen—unwed and equal in power. _Sweet Egg with his easy smiles and infectious laughter._ _The best in Viserys_ , she often thought to herself, _the brother I always deserved_.

Before she felt Aegon’s love, Dany was truly lost. In her dreams, she once envisioned her grand return to Westeros upon the back of Drogon with all the might of Essos behind her. The taste of reality lacked the sweetness of such songs. She found her way to the shore of her homeland as a beggar, with only a small contingent of unsullied and what remained of khalsaar. The lash of failure stripped away any trace of Queen Daenerys, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, leaving only the sad broken child of her past. The infernal kraken, with his horn and foul magic, scattered her children to the winds. Meereen, the city she once meant to rule, stood as little more than a pile of colored bricks and ash. Only Aegon and the promise of family reignited her fire. Only the reconciliation of her house put the sword back in her hand.

Naturally, her thoughts next turned to her other nephew. Though the sun’s oppressive heat barred down upon the Red Keep, a sudden chill shot through her bones. _From Storms End, we flew north on the wings of dark word and even darker dreams_. _We found my children atop a wall of ice. We found your brother as well_ — _the dragon whelped by a wolf._ _Yes. We found your brother, Aegon, but he was not alone._ For a moment,the frozen grip of memory seized her, prying loose all the demons that stalked her sleepless nights. She braced the jagged steal of Aegon the Conqueror, tethering herself to reality even as she felt the palm of her hand grow wet with blood. The piercing stare of glowing blue eyes—sharper than any sword forged by man—cut through her. _No, not now_ , she trembled. The deafening surge of darkness and death pressed against her eardrums. Dany bit down hard on her lip, the metallic taste of madness flooding her mouth.

_Leave me be, demons!_

“Are you ill, your Grace?”

Suddenly, the cold terror released her.

“Forgive me, Thoros of Myr.” She donned her regal mask, smiling at the ragged red knight that stood before. “As the day winds on, my mind seems to drift further from these halls. Please continue.”

“No need to apologize, Mother of Dragons, the earthly worries of man cannot bind the chosen vessel of R'hollr’s grace.”

When the tattered priest smiled, the wrinkles of his face became more pronounced across his weathered skin. _Did the monsters from the cold suck the life from you, priest? Will that be my fate as well?_

“But I do not speak of the petty matter’s of high lords and landed knights, Queen Daenerys. I speak of service to the One True God.”

“Ah, yes, the temple you wish to build.” She leaned back in her throne, her silver gold hair pressed against the cool steel. “We gifted the followers of the Red God ample land upon Rhaenys Hill as a reward for their brave service at the Wall,” she steeled herself against involuntary pulse of fear, “Please, good priest, build your temple there in the embrace of my royal house.”

“We intend to, your Grace, but there is the matter of funding we must consider.”

Dany chuckled, trying to draw the priest in with the allure of her Targaryen eyes. _The Red Priests take no such vows to abscond from the flesh of women—like any other man, they melt at the thought of a my touch._

“Must it always be about coins, my dear priest?” she responded playfully, “The King and I follow the Faith. Our gods would cut our kingdom down with all seven of their swords if we were to open our hearts to another.”

“Your gods are jealous gods if the would blind you from the light, Your Grace.”

“And what of your god, Thoros of Myr? Your God demands that you to throw the faithless into the flame, does he not?”

The Myrish priest’s body wriggled uncomfortably. “Some in our faith adhere to such practices, but most only honor the breath of life given by the Holy Flame.”

_The same breath you breathed into Jon Snow?_

“It makes no matter, I fear we do not possess the coin to spare.”

“What of the gold you give to the Faith so that they may rebuild their Sept?” the Priest challenged.

Dany brushed off his insolence, “you are mistaken, Thoros. My men are in charge of rebuilding the Sept of Bealor—not the Faith—and they rebuild it for the poor of all gods, be they red or numerous.” She shifted in her chair, ignoring the growing pain in her spine, “You see, we are constructing a shelter for the lowest of King’s Landing so they might never find themselves without a warm hearth, clean water, or a hot meal. A noble deed for any god, am I wrong?”

“No doubt, Your Grace, but you would build at the feet of the Seven when the true faithful swarm upon your shores, desperate to bathe in the warmth of you and your dragons?”

_A persistent old man, aren’t you?_

She gave the Thoros an apologetic smile, “and they are welcome to my embrace, as are all the children that walk this earth, but my dear nephew and I still keep to the Seven.”

Rather than being deterred, however, a defiant youthfulness seemed to fill the old priest’s lungs, compelling him to hound his Queen. “The Seven may be the gods of your ancestors and much of Westeros…but things are changing, Mother of Dragons.” Dany swore she saw a shadow pass across his once placid face, “you need only look to the North…Look to those who saw the army of the Dark God Whose Name Must Not be Spoken; look to those who peered into the depths of the True Night.”

Dany’s body tensed. _You will not speak of such evils in my presence, Demon Worshipper._ But before Dany could spit her venom, sweet Egg intervened with honeyed words.

“What Northmen do you speak of, Thoros? The newly minted House Thenn of Karhold or the sparse handful of minor houses sprung forth from the Gift? Besides those few, how many now turn away from their sacred trees?” though he spoke to the withered red priest, the dazzle of his smile and sparkle of his violet eye never turned from his little Naeryes. “After the horrors of the Last Winter, no doubt the Northerners stare in awe of your God’s power, but that does not mean that they bow to him. The draw their strength from the Old Gods, for they are the children of the First Men.”

“But as you say, how can they deny the truth of R’hlorr after what they saw?” the Red Priest now stunk of desperation, “how can you, my king?”

_You dare question your king, you red fool?_

Egg’s laugh filled the halls as he began to bounce his sweet babe upon his knee, “The harsh winter makes for stubborn men, just ask my brother.” Naerys laughed gleefully as her father hoisted her into the air, “and tread carefully, priest. Don’t ever presume to question a dragon.”

Though the smile never left her nephews face, Dany felt sting of fire in his words. _An Aegon not an Egg_ , she thought proudly.

The priest’s faded crimson robes now seemed to hang heavier upon his thin shoulders. Whether in fealty to his Queen and King or out of exhaustion, Thoros of Myr dip into a deep bow.

“Forgive me, my King…” his pale-brown eyes then turned toward her, “my Queen.” His brief surge of conviction dissipated, “The passion of faith often drives men to say foolish things.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” For the first time, Egg looked up at the tattered priest, “you must smile, Thoros of Myr, for the light of summer shines on you.”

“May the light shine upon all of us, Your Grace.”

“Now it is I who must ask for forgiveness, Thoros of Myr,” Egg continued before the vanquished flame could return to the crowds, “I must ask you to stay at the Red Keep at least until the end of my sweet daughters name day celebrations.”

“If you were to ask, I would never leave the confines of your keep for I am forever the humble servant of R’hlorr’s children. What, may I inquire, do you need of me?”

 _No you may not inquire, fire demon_ , Dany thought as she bit her tongue.

“My brother, Lord Crowstark, makes for the capital as we speak. He desires your council on matters concerning the growing number of outlaws that plague the Riverlands.”

Though she thought it impossible, the Red priest seemed to grow grayer at the mention of the burning fields and despoiled water that now made up the once fertile lands of House Tully.

“Of…of course, your grace.”

“Good,” Aegon stood, holding his child to his chest, “then please, Thoros of Myr, I ask you to make yourself feel at home in my family’s keep.”

Thoros of Myr gave one final bow at the foot of the throne before his Fiery Hand consumed him, flanking him on either side before making their way towards the entrance of the Great Hall. _On one account, the old priest is not mistaken—the flame worshippers now flock to our city._ Dany remembered when the Red God’s guard first made their pilgrimage of war. Men clad in black leather, the mark of their god etched into their dusky faces, with spears tipped by fire pointed towards the Wall. They refused the blankets and cloaks offered to them, claiming that only the fire of their lord and the death of his enemy could warm them. _You brought death to the enemy, but legions of you paid with your lives._ Once the sunset upon the Last Winter, however, the fire worshipers did not return to their homes upon the shores of Essos. On the contrary, more and more voyaged to Westeros, so as to pray amidst dragon fire.

After the Red Priest’s audience with the throne ceased, the courtiers resumed the mumbled discussion of trivialities and hushed whispers of gossip until her Lord Hand announced the next petitioner.

“Ah, four hours in and already nearly halfway through the list,” Tyrion Lannister exclaimed in mock revelry. He sat below her to the left, beside the stairs that ascended to the thrones, fidgeting in his own ornate wooden chair. “At this rate, we will set a record.”

He inspected the long roll of paper in his hand.

“Lord Willas of House Tyrell: Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Reach.” The chatter around the court quieted as Lord Lannister looked up from his parchment, “please, step forward and address your Queen and King.”

A tall lithe man garbed in a brilliant emerald doublet stepped forward. His long auburn hair had gone white at his temples and flecks of snow riddled his beard, but the Last Rose still appeared youthful and handsome. Though he walked with a limp and required a cane, he still glided gracefully across the floor as he approached the throne.

When he bowed, his auburn hair fell towards the floor, “My Queen and King, it warms my heart be in the presence of dragons.”

 _You hide your loathing well, Rose_. She straightened her back before speaking, “it is your smile that warms us, my lord. What brings you here before us today? Ask anything of me and I will do my upmost to grant it.”

The false smiled disappeared form his face as his mouth went slack with confusion. “I am at loss, your Grace, for I came here under the assumption that it was you who requested my presence.”

Dany turned to Egg, but her nephew kept his eyes dutifully trained upon his daughter, refusing to look up at the Reach lord. _He no longer laughs_ , Dany thought sadly. _The_ _brother of his greatest dishonor stands before him, silencing him in his own court_.

Although they spat upon their oaths owed to the dragon, first with the Usurper Baratheons and later the ill-gotten Lannisters, Dany still felt a pang of pity for the once great House Tyrell. Lord Mace Tyrell met his end on the field against the Golden Company. Garlan Tyrell died after taking a wound during the siege of Highgarden, not long after his killer got his lady sister with child. Wounded himself during the battle, Egg was bed ridden following his victory. Lady Maergery personally saw to the recovery of both her brother and the dragon prince. Perhaps she did it for the crown that seemed to constantly elude her, or maybe she did truly love him—Dany did not know. By the time Aegon made for King’s Landing, however, Garlan slept in his father’s crypt and Lady Maergery held two Targaryen Bastards in her womb.

Suddenly, like a siren’s song, the of voice of Arianne Martell rose above the clamoring whispers, “Lord Tyrell, it was I who requested your presence or, more accurately, the presence of Lady Maergery.”

Though he tried, Lord Tyrell failed to hide his worry as he looked towards the Queen Consort of Aegon VI—“the dark times my sister spent in this city still haunt her, I am afraid. I did not wish to rob her of the measure of peace she finds in family.”

Do you mean the Targaryen bastards that sleep in the nursery of Highgarden? Given the reputation of Dornish women, Dany thought Lord Tyrell justified in his hesitation.

Along with Lord Lannister, Arianne sat at the foot of stairs that led to the thrones, “I know well the horrors that your sister suffered at the hands of the Whore Queen, for she speaks of them often in her letters.”

_Letters?_

“Strange though, Lord Tyrell, because for months she wrote of her desire to visit the capitol. She wrote of her longing to take tea in the lush gardens while our children played, to walk the streets of flea bottom and feed the poor as she once did, but now she does not come.” Her lips curled into a devilish smile as she watched the rose wilt at her words, “Why do you persist on keeping my friend from me?”

Lord Tyrell’s already fair skin turned paler. “I feared for her safety, my Queen. The people still remember the tyrannous rule of the Bastard’s Line.”

“And you hold her responsible for their crimes?”

“Of course not, my Queen, but the common—“

“The commoners love your sweet sister as I do, Lord Tyrell. It is my heart’s desire that her sons should know their sisters.” Arianne sighed.

“I apologize, my Queen, for my wary heart. My sister and her children are my life now and I guard them jealously.” Lord Tyrell leaned heavily upon his cane, a polished staff of birch wood wreathed with intertwining thickets of ivy carved across it. _A humble stick for such a high lord_ , Dany thought to herself. “Perhaps after your daughter’s name day I can write to her, I can—“

Arianne raised her delicate hand, a brilliant jewel affixed to each of her coppery fingers. “That will not be necessary, my lord, your sister already sent a raven nearly two weeks ago informing me of your reluctance to allow her return to King’s Landing. Her letter requested an armed escort and the swiftest sand steeds attached to carriages for the journey.” Arianne’s delicate lashes flutter as she laughed, “she will not be deterred it seems.”

Lord Tyrell appeared as though he wished to protest, but the words failed to escape the confines of his frozen jaw.

The Queen Consort continued, “She makes her way to the capital as we speak, under the protection of Ser Humfrey Hightower--the son of your bannerman and member of Aegon VI King’s Guard.” She then rose from her chair, her exotic eyes trained upon the Reach Lord, “My daughters’ brothers will not miss their sister’s name day.”

As the Dornish Queen sashayed across the floor, Dany felt a strange spasm of envy. Arianne exuded sexuality with every step. Her voluptuous frame swayed rhythmically, lulling her prey into a trance. _Knights may willingly die in defense my honor_ , Dany pondered, _but they would gladly sell their own for a night with her._

Dany nearly laughed as she looked out across the hall of once-chaste noblemen, now salivating like dogs hungry for a bone. All men appeared enthralled by her carnal splendor; all men except Lord Tyrell.

When Arianne reached Lord Tyrell, she placed one hand on his hip and the other on his shoulder. The Flower stiffened in the snake’s embraced. Arianne looked so small as she held Lord Tyrell, her dark eyes looking up into his green. “Your sister has my love, Lord Tyrell, as do you.” She then stood on her toes, gently bringing the Flower to her face, placing a kiss on each of his checks.

Though still relatively unschooled in the exhaustive intricacies and petty enmity that characterized relations between noble blood in Westeros, Dany knew well of the deep hatred that ran between the red sands of Dorne and the golden fields of the Reach. Yet here stood an olive branch.

_The outstretch hand friendship or a hand brandishing the knife._

Only the appearance of Jon Snow’s banners broke the stun silence in the grand hall. Three of his crows, solemn and rugged like all Northmen, marched down the center aisle. At catching sight of his half-brother’s sigil, Egg face came alive with excitement.

“Forgive me my lords and ladies, but we must bring the petitioning to a close. If you would be so kind, please leave your written grievances with any of the Lord Hand’s pages. Over the coming weeks, you will then be given a private audience with Lord Tyrion himself.”

Their Hand made his dislike evident as he grimaced before draining what remained of his goblet.

The sigil of newly legitimized House Crowstark—a purple-eyed direwolf encircled in fire upon a field of black—only made Dany feel uneasy. However, she willingly accepted any excuse to get out this infernal chair.

“We must call a meeting of the Small Council,” she stood from her Iron Throne, her voicing booming out over the crowd despite her small size, “Queensguard to me. Kingsguard to Aegon.”

A sea of white and metal swarmed them as they descended the stairs, beginning the long journey through the halls of the Red Keep towards the Dragon’s Table.

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 _Do you only bring dark words, Lord Snow? Doom and death seem to follow you_ , Dany thought tiredly as Jon Snow spoke of the troubles in the kingdoms.

“War still rages in the Riverlands, Aegon,” Jon Snow’s long face appeared as though the Mason himself craved it from stone, his features never revealing even the faintest unsaid whisper. “These men no longer fight for a cause or king—they fight only for survival, blood, and the hate of a dead woman.” He spoke with a measured cadence and even tone, almost painfully transparent in his meaning.

“How could such evils still plague our land?” Varys purred while his eyes watered as if grieving for the thousands lost.

_The Spider loves his stage._

“We bypassed this butchery when we took King’s Landing,” Lord Snow’s eyes remained downcast, “it would appear as though not all the blood letting stopped when the you took the Iron Throne.”

_And whom do you refer to, Lord Snow? “We” did not take King’s Landing, only Aegon did. You refused to leave your Wall and cared little for our crown. Do you now mean to now lay this blunder at your brother’s feet?_

Occasionally, the acerbic of venom—followed swiftly by the tang of guilt—filled her mouth when Jon Snow spoke. Though Dany never meant it, and Jon Snow never provoked her, she sometimes felt her patience tried quickly by his mere presence. Usually, she found the Stark bastard relatively agreeable. He was kind, honest, and dear to her nephew and king. Though he did not possess the godly features of Old Valyria, no women would ever call him ugly. He stood of height with Aegon, yet broader and more built. The vertical scars engraved upon his pale face transformed his solemn stare into something haunting—something otherworldly. He possessed a harsh beauty befitting of his Northern birth. Only his deep violet eyes, so dark they appeared nearly crimson, gave evidence to his targaryen blood. Regardless of how hard she tried, however, he always felt like a stranger to her. _Aegon is blood of my blood_ , she thought, _but you are only a wolf_.  

“Lord Corwstark is right, the wound festered as we warred and the fires in the Riverland now burn in earnest.” Ser Barristan chimed in.

For the second time that day, Dany felt the bite of jealousy. Ser Barristan held Jon Snow in the highest regard since fighting by his side during the Last Winter. When offered the chance to trudge alongside Lord Snow’s crows in search of demons and bandits, her Lord Commander abandoned Dany to his sworn brothers. Though aware of the need for peace in all of her kingdoms, she couldn’t help by feel a measure of childish resentment towards her white knight. She felt as though her father now neglected her in favor of some lowly orphan.

“What do you need, brother? Ask for it, and it shall be yours.” Aegon replied, his voice filled with concern.

“Please, your Grace, I would exercise caution,” Harry Strickland—Lord of Grandview and Master of Coin—waived his hand dismissively towards Jon Snow. “The crows come to our coffers looking for feed far too often. We feed hundreds of them as is, and now we must supply a grand invasion of the Riverlands? I will not even begin to discuss the amount of gold we needlessly drain into North…” Dany saw the beads of sweat forming on the small man’s bare scalp as he inhaled his plate Dornish peppers, “and after all, Jon Snow has a dragon. Why not save us all the time and coin, and just burn this red bitch as her demon god intended.”

“You will address my brother as Lord Crowstark or not at all, Strickland,” Egg replied, darkly.

“Of course, Your Grace—the trouble of old age, as you know.” Though he dipped his head towards Jon Snow, Lord Strickland do not seem too apologetic for his gaffe.

Jon Snow, however, only sighed as a tired laugh escaped from his frozen lips. He did not appear offended by the use of his bastard name, “It’s alright, Aegon.”

Dany’s jaw involuntarily tightened at the brotherly familiarity between the King and his bastard brother.

Jon Snow turned his attention to the noble of coin counter, “and what of the gold you pour into the Stormlands? Or the halls of Grandview?”

The squat man reddened at the accusation, “I will not have my honor questioned, bast—,” he choked on the word as Aegon’s eyes bore into fleshy skin, “I serve the realm faithfully.”

“I do not doubt that Lord Strickland,” Jon Snow continued, his tone even though Dany felt a chill from every syllable he spoke, “I only ask for justice. The North alone amongst the Seven Kingdoms faced the full brunt of winter with sword and spear.” Dany watched Jon Snow’s eyes hardened as the tiny man shrunk still smaller in front of this wolf-made-dragon, “I would have the lands of my foster-family restored, Lord Strickland, as is only right.”

“Yes, the North must not starve,” the cowed lord mumbled, “but I still don’t see why you require so much men… with Rhaegal…”

Jon Snow flinched at the mention of his dragon’s name.

“The outlaws hide amongst the trees and disappear into the darkness; dragon fire will do little. I fear Rhaegal would burn whatever earth remains to the River Lords.”

He then turned to her, “I will need to recall a thousand of my rangers. That will leave nearly five- hundred to King’s Landing to bolster your gold cloaks, Your Grace. That, along with sufficient provisions for a months journey, should suffice.”

_A tall order, Lord Snow._

Dany maintained her regal poise as she addressed her lord commander. “Ser Barristan, do you believe such a force will be adequate?”

“Yes, Your Grace. With soldiers of their skill, I believe Lord Crowstark and I will be able to retake the Twins from Red Woman in little time.”

_‘Lord Crowstark and I?’ So you mean to see your little adventure in woods through till the end?_

She looked back towards Jon Snow, forcing the smile to her face. “Then you will have your army, Lord Crowstark. However, considering the current state of the capital, it will take sometime for us to gather the necessary supplies. Can your excursion into the Riverland wait three days?”

If the delay bothered him, his face—frozen as ever—did not show it. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“If the Throne goes to war, I believe it only proper that a representative of the crown join the march.” Tyrion Lannister grinned at Jon Snow. “Seeing as both the King and Queen will be preoccupied with this weeks festivities, it falls to their brave Hand to take up the sword.”

With a prod from the little lion, Jon Snow’s solemn mask shattered. “No, not you Lannister,” he spat, “I will not have you dishonor my family by gloating over her—“

Dany cut across the crow’s rage, “Yes, Tyrion will join the expedition.” Though the regal poise remained, her stare dared Jon Snow to protest, “The Hand’s presence will be a precondition for the men and supplies you requested.”

Although Dany realized she would have little luck depriving Jon Snow of his own rangers, his crows required her food.

Resigned, Jon Snow leaned back into his chair, “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Admittedly, Dany did not really know to what end Tyrion could serve soldiers at war, let alone her own interest. For a moment, she feared that she acted only out of spite. _No,_ she told herself _, my power must be ever present, especially in matters concerning my council_. She quickly glanced at the noble party who drank, ate, and argued around the table of her forefather. Lord Harry Strickland, Master of Coin. Ser Gunther Hightower, Master of Ships. Lord Pykewood Peake, Master of Laws. Nymeria Sand, Mistress of Works. Save for Ser Barristan, all of those who sat on the small council owed their station, and thus their loyalty, to King Aegon. She did not mistrust sweet Egg; only those who would seek to advise him. Thus, though Tyrion devoted himself to his own ends, he always remained impartial when it came to choosing Queen or King.

Nymeria Sand hummed from the other end of the table while she absent-mindedly ran her fingers along the hem of her silk gown. “Which of your birds do you mean to take to war, Lord Crowstark? You only just brought Salai the Braavosi back to me, and now you wish for him to fly off to battle once again?” She pouted her full red lips as she spoke, “the Mistress of Works requires your Braavosi’s brilliant mind and it would be cruel to deny her.”

The allure of the Sand Snake’s olive skin could not melt Jon Snow’s icy demeanor. He remained stiff, his gaze never wandering from her green eyes. “With Ser Barristan accompanying me, I see no reason why Salai cannot take up his duties in the capitol while his company is away. Though you must ask him, my lady, for he swore his oath only until we brought an end to winter. Now he is a free man beholden only to his own freewill.”

“You do not command your own men, Lord Crowstark?” Nymeria asked incredulously.

“On the battlefield, yes.” Jon Snow’s shoulders seemed to slacken from exhaustion, “but whether they decide to follow me onto to that battlefield, I leave to them.”

“It’s wonder that you’ve won a single battle, Snow…” the petulant Lord Strickland mumbled, pepper seeds spitting forth from his mouth.

“ You mean ‘Lord Crowstark,’ Strickland,” Dany responded sharply to tiny man’s slight. _He might be the lowest of dragons, but he is still a dragon, and I will not abide a creature such as you questioning that._ “And how many battles, may I ask, have you won?”

“Your Grace,” the indignant lord cooed, “The Golden Company retook the Stormlands and smashed the armies of the Reach.” He beamed with pride as his eyes glazed over, remembering wars won and foes bested. “I cannot begin to count the number of battles we won while I stood at the helm.”

“At the helm or cowering at the rear?” Dany smiled innocently as Lord Strickland turned as red as his Dornish peppers.

Lord Peake laughed heartily at the expense of his former commander. Now the current lord of Starpike once his cousin replaced him in exile, the Master of Laws still carried himself like a sell-sword: large golden rings adorned both his ears, chains of precious metals and diamonds hung around his neck, and he drank more than even the drunkest of drunkards. “By all rights, Strickland, Crowstark here should be allowed to run a sword through a craven like you for even questioning his metal,” Lord Peake slurred. He took a long drought of brown ale before continuing, “The man has proven he can fight like the devil, but I only wonder when his crows will be returned to their proper lords so that they may till the field instead of swinging the swords.”

“Most of my rangers disbanded after the New Spring,” Jon Snow replied. Though the massive Lord Peake cut an intimidating figure, Jon Snow did not tremble,“ of those that that remain, they either swore allegiance to the Night’s Watch or Mance Rayder before the Last Winter. Any of the nobles that serve are most definitely of the North. As for any peasants, these men were likely peasants so low that their lord’s didn’t even bother to tie them to the land, and even so, they are more than likely of the North as well.” To Dany’s surprise, the northerner actually smiled, “I believe the king returned your family seat in the Reach to you, is that correct? I suggest you tend to it, my lord, and leave the Crown’s rangers to me.”

Purple rings, brought on by perpetual drunken wrenching, nearly swallowed Lord Peake’s bloodshot eyes as he grinned, “the rangers belong to the King and Queen you say, Crowstark? Funny, what’s that they scream when they charge into battle?”

 _The North Remembers… For vengeance, for the Young Wolf…_ a chill ran along Dany’s skin.

“Come now, Lord Peake, what else do expect will light the fire within their icy northern hearts if not the memory of their brave and departed king?” Tyrion filled his wine cup, seemingly the only one drinking at pace with Lord Peake. “Do you mean to suggest now that the utterance of house words constitutes treason? If so, I fear the headsman’s wrist will soon grow tired.”

Dany saw Jon Snow’s eyes narrow upon Tyrion, searching his words with regard to the dead Robb Stark. Whatever he found seemed to satisfy him because he remained silent.

“My brother’s loyalty is beyond question, Peake.” Aegon frothed with tempered fury as he addressed his Master of Laws. “And he is correct—it would be wise for you to remember who you owe your title to.”

But doubt crept into Dany’s mind. _Is your brother’s loyalty truly beyond question, Sweet Egg?_ She looked from the Northern Sentinel to the Southeron King. _You, who see only the good in people, cannot fathom the poison that accompanies the sting of betrayal._ In truth, Dany knew that even if Jon Snow held no love for her nephew, his faultless honor would prevent him from ever rising against his half-brother. Still, though he may serve the Iron Throne, his men worship only the legendary Lord of Crows. All this distrust tied Dany’s stomach in knots _. Am I so broken, that I would doubt the integrity of my blood?_ But Jon Snow was not her blood. _Why can I not feel anything more than indifference for the man who helped win me my throne?_

“Forgive me, Your Grace, I did not mean to offend.” Lord Peake smiled upon his king affectionately. “We might not carry Bittersteel’s standard any longer, but those of us who served will never forget what you’ve done for us. We thought that the Blackfyre’s would bring us home, but it was you, a true Targaryen, who gave us back our honor.” He then proceeded to drain his mug, slamming it to the table with momentous force, “We shall name all the children, born from noblewomen and whores alike, Aegon and Griff!”

Flattery cooled her nephew fires, “You Honor me, Lord Peake.” He moved to address the entire council, “now, aside from the trouble in the Riverlands and the ongoing construction in the capital, does any over blight plague the realm?” Aegon smiled brightly while he leaned back in his chair, challenging any member of the small council to try and dampen his spirits, “or may I return to me sweet princess and her coming name-day festivities?”

“Any word from Archmaester Marwyn and Grandmaester Ryam?” Dany inquired, looking towards Tyrion.

“Ah, yes, a raven came late last night, I believe. They return from Qarth upon _Vhagar_ as we speak.”

 _Good, I do not trust the Queen of Cities with my maesters. Though perhaps they could keep Ryam_ , Dany thought with a smile.

“Well then,” Dany stood to address the entire council, relishing how men bowed to her, “I see no reason why we cannot not bring this council meeting to an end—“

“If you would excuse me, Your Grace, but I must ask to speak with you and Aegon alone.”

Dany jerked her neck to look at Jon Snow, barely concealing her rage. _You dare to interrupt a your Queen?_ She swore she saw his pale checks redden beneath her glare.

Jon Snow continued, “Lannister, please leave behind your parchment.”

“Well I’ll be damned. I did not take you for a scribe, Lord Crowstark. Did I finally rub off on you after all that time spent together up North?” With his disfigured face, even Lord Tyrion’s most sincere of smiles smacked of mockery, “well enjoy yourselves, dragons. I am off to find a serving maid who prefers my purse and sweet charms over my face and squat legs.”

Suddenly, every member of the small council began to follow the prancing dwarf out of the chamber. The Spider alone seemed to linger by the door, his ears trained upon the whispers that hung in the air, before leaving. _Though they muttered insults underneath their breath, they all fall in line to the bastard’s command…even Ser Barristan_. Dany finally shed her regal poise as she sunk into her chair, fuming at the presumptuous crow that sat before her.

Aegon appeared ignorant to the usurpation of power they just witnessed; instead, he looked anxious as his brother scribbled away on two pieces of parchment. Since the table spanned nearly the length of the room, Jon Snow needed to walk his neatly folded letters to his trueborn Targaryen kin.

Fear, then excitement, replaced the feeling of indignation that filled Dany once she saw Aegon’s face go from blank shock to unrestrained glee. With nimble fingers, she unfolded her own parchment. Her heart stopped at the sight of a single word.

_Dragons._  



	3. Jon I

“Snow,” murmured the moon. The wolf made no answer. The sounds of the sleepless city drowned out the quiet clang of the tile. The massive beast leapt from hovel to hovel, shanty to shanty, navigating the festering scab of civilization. He heard no howl. His grey brother died along with its master. The cold hands of dead men throttled his other brother. His sister, content to feast in orgy with lesser cousins, no longer cried out to him. The pack had dwindled.

 

“Dragon,” the moon called down, cackling. Though the beast’s white fur appeared radiant beneath the night stars, no one bothered to look up towards the heavens. The filth below stung the nostrils. The retched toil of Man filled the air. Escriment and death oozed forth from every porous stone. He longed for the forest; he longed for the untamed North. The hot night air felt thick upon his fur. His tongue hung loose, tasting the black slime of desolation. No wolf can live in this city.

 

“Dragon,” the moon insisted. From high above the thin veins smeared across the surface of this forest of dirt, rock, and depravity, the wolf spotted its pray. Though they cloaked themselves in the skins of peasants, the wolf could smell the aroma of jasmine and citrus. He smelled the flowers amongst the weeds. The grey one who smelled of death followed closely behind his hatchlings. Red eyes trained upon the fast approaching company. The beast and insects that infest the stone forest never sleep—they gorge themselves on each other’s flesh, only stopping to defile those too broken to bare fangs. Unlike the wolf, they cannot smell these flowers.

 

“Monster.” A slate tile tumbled into the meandering stream of dust below. “Monster, Monster, “ the moon repeatedly cried, “MONSTER!”

 

The red eyes turned a deep violet as Jon Snow returned to the decaying Inn built from corroded brick and plaster. _‘Monster,_ ’ Jon thought as he slipped back into his skin, unable to shake free of the truth.

 

“No one follows them,” Jon shut his eyes tight, willing his mind to the present, “They will arrive with Ser Barristan any moment now.”

 

Salai stood in the corner of the dilapidated room. “The spider spins his web with care. His silk may appear imperceptible to the untrained eye, but his thread knows no bound.” The man spoke from the shadows, with his black cloak and dark features making him nearly indiscernible from the dimness that filled the dank room. Only his brilliant white smile shined through, “We may keep our secret safe tonight, but what is to say his little birds will not chance upon it tomorrow?”

 

“Nothing is guaranteed,” Jon admitted grimly, “but we must at least try.” _The world will likely burn if we do not._ Ever since his brother came forth from the weirwood tree, dark questions—not answers—seemed to haunt Jon. _Only the blood of kings can ride dragons; only the blood of my kin can tame these beasts. The three hatchlings belong to them by right, but can anyone be trusted with such power?_

Salai stepped forth into the waning candlelight, taking a seat at the table. With a figure more befitting a poet than a warrior, every step Salai took looked as though he swayed. Although tall, his lithe frame and tanned skin made him stand out amongst most rangers. He kept his face clean-shaven. Sharp check bones gave his face an almost feminine look. His false eye—a brilliant sapphire—defiantly glowed from amongst the hardened Northmen he commanded. A _thousand lives, and one_. The smile perpetually present upon Salai’s face always amazed Jon _. The horrors I faced in one lifetime sap me of all joy, let alone a thousand._

_Perhaps that’s the trick_ , Jon mused. _Once you discard a life, the pain dissipates along with the weight of memories._ Although he smiled like a fool, Salai’s one good eye remained ever vigilant. _You called yourself a pirate when you fished me from the Shivering Seas. What life do you live now, my friend?_

“Fear not, Snow, for I will assemble an army of bards to sing your story,” Salai said with the faintest hint of his foreign tongue.

 

“I am not dead yet, my friend.” Jon responded.

 

Salai then repressed a chuckled, “no, not yet. But the Mother of Dragons fast approaches, and whispers of your latest slight already fill the halls of the Red Keep.” Salai slammed his fist in mock indignation, “A _bastard_ dares to dismiss a council belonging to a _queen_?”

 

 _You jest, however, I doubt that I will make it through the night unburnt._ An unseen stranger suddenly whispered into his ears: _you survived the fire once, Monster, why not a second time?_

 

Jon feigned a smile as the voice returned to the depths just as quickly as it rose.

“Make sure it’s a good one, like honey rolling over thunder, for I a doubt her Grace will spare the rod.”

As if on queue, the Dragon Queen entered in a fury, the rotten wooden door nearly splintering from its rusted hinges as she forced her way in. Queen Daenerys, her flawless features contorted in a beautiful rage, descended upon Jon Snow as her beloved Drogon would descend upon a helpless sheep—“You dare order me to wade through the filth of the this city so that you may give instructions on _my_ dragons?!”

 

Her silver blond hair, all tangled and wild, stormed along with her wrath. In these moments, strangely, when Daenery Stormborn seethed with anger and seemed to curse his very existence, Jon Snow did not feel fear. He did no feel shame. Instead, his blood ran hot as he stared in awe upon this fiery goddess. _I knew a queen once who spat upon my name, but I only felt pity for that creature because she was no true queen. Not like you, Daenerys Stormborn._ Then, as suddenly as the radiant goddess appeared, she faded, leaving only a beautiful mortal in her place. _A mortal woman I must guard myself from_ , Jon always needed to remind himself.

 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, I did not mean to offend you,” Jon stood, “I only thought it best that we discuss such important matters away from the prying ears that fill the Red Keep.” He attempted a smile, “Please, Your Grace, sit with me and I will answer any of your questions.”

 

Jon’s stiff sincerity did not appear to temper her fire. However, as she moved towards her seat, it became clear that the desire for information trumped her pride. Aegon and Ser Barristan quietly followed in the wake of her storm.

 

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Jon sat down as well, noticing that Salai neglected to rise for their royal guests. “Now as you know—“

 

“No, I don’t know, _Snow_. I don’t know why you believe it best to keep my children up North where they are no use to anyone except your tree beasts and crippled brother!” the Queen spat.

 

“Dany, please clam down!” Pleaded Aegon.

 

“No, Aegon, I will not.” Her fires continued to rage though her eyes soften at the mention of Bran. _Perhaps she regrets speaking so ill of an innocent boy. Although, Bran hasn’t been a boy since he fell from that tower._ “Your Bastard brother now means to steal my children from me! From _us_!”

 

 _Is this the madness that taints my blood?_ Jon thought ominously. _This is why these dragons must stay in the North—the world will surely burn if they come South._ “I do not mean to steal anything of yours, your Grace. I only wish to preserve the peace we fought so hard for.” Though he did not mean it, he could not restrain the trace of desperation in his voice, “those dragons must remain in the North. Without the Wall, we leave the realm unguarded. We need dragonfire to keep them at bay.”

 

Suddenly, her flame subsided as Jon saw the cold chill of memory seize her. Her delicate pale skin grew still whiter. “I thought we drove them back…I thought we killed them all,” she whispered with her beautiful eyes wide with fear.

 

“Yes we drove them back, but we did not kill them all,” Jon fought the sudden urge to reach out and sooth her now trembling hand, “Bran does not understand. He told me that he thought it would be over, yet the trees still feel their presence.”

 

“Trees?” Daenerys asked, confused.

 

Jon bit his lower lip. _Just when she begins to listen, now I must convince here with dreams and mystic signs._ “Yes, trees. As you know, my broth—my cousin.” _With them_ , _you are not Eddard Stark’s son,_ Jon reminded himself, _you belong to some long dead dragon prince and his Northern prize_. “My cousin Bran learned to greensee from Bloodraven. He speaks and sees through the trees,” Jon hesitated, _will they think me mad_? “He…he can now even communicate by way of dreams. That’s how I learned of Drogon’s hatchlings left in the far North.” Jon suddenly remember that Deanery always seemed rather fond his strange brother, adorned with his crown of twigs and branches, so he stressed Bran’s hand in this decision. “Bran requested that we leave these dragons to him. He enters their skins just as easily as he enters any other creature. With them, Bran will become the new Wall.”

 

“How many dragons?” She asked, without batting an eye at idea of a broken boy slipping forth from dreamscape to dreamscape.

 

“Three, Your Grace.” _Yes,_ _three monsters capable of burning us all of us to ash._

 

“Trees and dreams, Jon?” Aegon asked incredulously, “True, I did not fight North of the Wall as long as either of you so I cannot speak of on such magic, but do you think it wise to ignore such a gift, regardless of the risk?”

 

“I saw many things I that I cannot unsee while we fought the demons of winter,” Ser Barristan added thoughtfully. “And I know the gods of House Stark are strong in young Lord Stark; however, His Grace may be right. Three more dragons will assure the rebirth of this kingdom.”

 

 _The rebirth, or the annihilation_ , “And what of the dragon eggs here in King’s Landing?” Jon asked, tasting the desperation on his tongue, “would it not be easier to hatch those as opposed to returning North to parts unknown?”

 

“Dragon eggs here, in the capital?” Ser Barristan looked stunned.

 

The Queen tensed, shooting an agitated glare towards her royal nephew. Aegon—King of all Seven Kingdoms—had the good sense not to meet her gaze. “I suppose you told him?”

 

Aegon’s face reddened, “Yes, Dany, but its not as though I sent a raven. A lieutenant of his, I believe his name was Grenn, was in King’s Landing at the time and I thought it prudent that Jon should know.”

 

“You _believe_ his name was Grenn?” Dany replied sharply as her eyes narrowed.

 

 _Gods, Aegon._ Jon intervened before the dragon could breath her fire, “His name is Grenn, your Grace, and he stands as my most trusted lieutenant.”

 

“Your most trusted lieutenant? Snow, you wound me” Salai japed, though Jon ignored this poor attempt at humor.

 

“Your Grace, Grenn and I swore our vows together upon the Wall and fought side by side long after it fell. I trust him with my life.” His mind swirled with memories long believed forgotten; memories of failed flights and oaths kept. _A boy thought himself a knight and set out to avenge his father, only for his brothers to remind him of honor. But I am not that boy anymore—not since the red woman and the fire._ “Grenn delivered Aegon’s letter with the seal unbroken.”

 

The Queen, though still rigid, inclined her head towards Jon, “so be it. Now you know of the dragon eggs, but how do you propose that we hatch them?”

 

 _By smashing them into a thousand pieces_ , “I do not know, Your Grace, I know little of dragon lore.”

 

“Does Rhagael tell you nothing when you plunge into his mind?” the Queen retorted.

 

 _And she knows little of warging_ , “No, Your Grace. The connection shared between does not work like that.”

 

Her beautiful eyes glazed over with fire and she appeared as though she meant to shout; however, she then paused, calmly folding her hands upon the table. “Lord Tyrion continues to investigate the art of hatching dragons. Unfortunately, little information remains from the era of the Valyrian dragon lords.” She smiled, her brilliantly white teeth both mesmerizing and menacing in some strange way, “Apparently, a bond forms near instantly when a dragon hatches while in the care of its rider, but you’ll understand why we hesitate to place dragon eggs in the cradles of little princesses.”

 

“Of course, your Grace,” Jon replied quietly, trying to steady his heartbeat.

 

For a lingering moment, the Dragon Queen looked upon Jon with strange mix of anger and curiosity, before standing from her chair. “Alright, Lord _Crowstark_ ,” she said, drawing out every syllable of his newly noble name, “we will do it your way.”

 

Jon simply stared back blankly at the seemingly tamed dragon, his mouth agape. Aegon and Ser Barristan recovered more quickly, finding their feet seconds later.

 

“At this moment, we will refrain from seeking out _my_ dragons in the far North,” she turned to her sword and shield, “Ser Barristan, we will leave now.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace.” The knight made for the door.

 

Finally, Jon stood and bowed as courtesy demanded. “Thank you, your Grace.” Though temporarily relieved, Jon knew that he would remain weary. _The queen is a dragon, and dragons have their tempers._

 

Before departing alongside his aunt and her guard, Aegon approached Jon and grasped him by the shoulder. His joy and soft eyes showed no signs of the scolding his just received, “see brother, how many times must I tell you? All will be well now. The realm will have peace,” he looked over to his aunt standing at the door, “and we will have a family.”

 

Jon admired his half-brother’s unfailing sincerity, “Yes, brother. All will be well.”

 

“No goodbye Ser Grandfather?” Salai tipped back in his chair, hoisting his feet up upon the wood table. _The man’s mouth will be the death of him._

 

“Salai.” Ser Barristan grunted, his lips remaining frozen and his eyebrows farrowed. The Queen, seemingly noticing Jon’s lieutenant for the first time, scowled at the man.

 

“Do call for me if you ever find yourself slumming through these alleyways of vice and filth again,”Salia continued, undeterred by the Dragon Queen’s indignation, “your first whore will be on me.”

 

 _Your japes overreach Salai_. “Enough, Salai.” Jon said, cooly.

 

“Lord Crowstark.” Daenerys called from behind Ser Barristan, he petite frame nearly completely eclipsed by the old knight, “In all the excitement today, it seems my nephew forgot to extend you an invitation. The family will be breaking fast together on the morrow to celebrate Nearys name day without the pomp and circumstance that comes along with a tourney.”

 

“Damn, I nearly forgot. Of course Jon will attend!” Aegon exclaimed joyously, as if a meal shared amongst Sand Snakes was the only proper way to start the day.

 

“And I must ask you to forgive my behavior this evening.” Her voice sounded sweet, yet Jon sensed the tautness with which she spoke, “you hold only the best intentions and the Kingdoms owe you a great deal.”

 

 _For a queen, she appears fairly well practiced in apologizing_. “Thank you, Your Grace, but it is unnecessary. Like any mother, you only wish to protect your children.”

 

“You are too kind, Lord Crowstark.” The Queen once again unsheathed her radiant smile, perhaps the deadliest weapon at her disposal. “Will you join us in the morning, then?”

 

“I would be honored, Your Grace.” Jon answered and then looked towards Aegon, who now joined the Queen at the door. “Besides, how else will little Naerys get her present?”

 

“Good, I look forward to a quite meal with just the company of my family. Until then, let us bid you goodnight.” She replied quickly, snuffing out any brotherly exchange between himself and the king.

 

The warm words did not fool Jon. _I am no family of yours._ “Goodnight, Your Grace.”

 

After the crown’s departure, they sat in silence for a few moments. Once assuredly free of the dragons, Salai gave his glib assessment of the Queen’s assurances, "So the Queen agrees to forget her dreams of dragons? How long until the she decides otherwise? A fortnight? A day? Or perhaps even an afternoon."

 

"She won't, " Jon sighed, running his fingers through his dark hair, "she understands."  Jon remembered her face; he remembered the look terror in those beautiful eyes. _Deanerys fought in the true war and she does not wish to fight it again._

 

Salai gave a bark of laughter, "yes the Mother of Dragons—so revered for her patience and understanding. Trust me, She will make for the North once Ibbenese whalers catch sight of her children.” Jon heard the certainty in his voice, “once the world hears the tale of unclaimed dragons ripe for the picking."

 

"Only Targaryen blood can ride dragons, " Jon responded, tiredly.

 

"Only _Valyrian_ blood can ride dragons," Salai corrected, "traces of which still flow through the Free Cities."

 

"Do you mean to offer your wisdom or to only present problems?"

 

"All the world's wisdom resides in unsolved problems, Snow." The dying flame's reflection danced upon his sapphire eye, "besides, I already offered you my solution."

 

 _Kill the babes_. Jon knew the death of the hatchling would be a kindness to the world. However brutal, their deaths would be quick. They would never grow to burn cities and cast shadows over the land. Nonetheless, he could not draw the knife.  He thought of Aegon: a brother gained through blood and fire. He thought of little Rhaenys: a sister taken by wickedness and steel. When Salai gave his suggestion, Jon Snow could not draw the knife. 

 

Salai's ever-present grin faded. Even in the dim light, he must have seen the anguish across Jon's face. "you must forget, my friend."

 

"There is nothing to forget." Jon attempted humor so as to disperse the unwelcomed ghosts. "I have kept you too long, Salai. What sink holes of ill repute do you plan on visiting? For though the hour of wolf fades, it is still early days for Salai of Braavos."Jon jested. In truth, Salai hailed from Meereen, though he spoke little of his life there.

 

At the mere prospect of depravity, Salai once again beamed like the sun. "Early days indeed, my friend. I must meet with mistress Nymeria and her sheep at dawn, though. I think I’ll numb the nerves with wine and women, maybe then ill be able to stomach her."

 

"Not a month ago you wrote poems of her beauty,” Jon questioned, half bemused.

 

"Yes, but a month ago I was a different man. That man was one month younger and one month more green." Salai dazed up at the decrepit ceiling as if looking upon the stars, "ah, what a fool that man was."

 

As Salai spoke, his one good eye seemed to quake in roguish delight. “Will the honorable Lord Crowstark join me on this noble quest?”

 

“Afraid not.” Jon answer as he stood from his chair, “I must meet with Ser Bryden and his company of Riverland lords at the God’s Gate. They planned on riding through the night so that they may appeal to the crown first thing in the morning.” _A meeting they will doubtfully receive._

 

“Well, send the Blackfish my love then.” Salai said while making for the door. He moved as if to music, stepping and swaying to an unheard rhythm.

 

 _I am doubtful your love will offer him any comfort after I tell him what must be done._ Jon extinguished the mass of wax where a candle once stood, leaving the dank room in total darkness. He then followed Salai out into the night.


	4. Tyrion I

The Candle light reflected off of the thick, soiled windows, giving the tavern’s interior a golden glow. The walls were uneven and unadorned except for the protruding stone and dirt. Bare chested women, swinging mugs of ale from side to side, danced in revelry around the great, stripped oak that stood at the epicenter of the hall. If not for the drunken orgy of skin, sweat, and sin that filled the room, Tyrion nearly mistook these barmaids for wood nymphs. _The Children of the Forest now come to worship their Gods_ , Tyrion mused to himself. As innocent maids sipped gingerly from their first goblet of sweet wine along side the most destitute and dedicated drunks, Tyrion felt that, in this moment, The Strong Oak Inn bested any noble banquet the Crown could muster. _As the Hand of the most-royal King and Queen, I am honor bound to scout out the competition_.

 

As Tyrion drained his own goblet, he tried to savor every last drop of Dornish red, tasting the spice of the southern sun and the bite of fermented grapes. For the first time in nearly three years, drinking now provided more than just a brief respite from the nightmares of winter and the shadow of one’s own mortality. After the better part of year spent as a slave and then a sellsword, Tyrion found himself freezing atop ramparts of the Wall alongside soon-to-be dead men, as opposed idling in Casterly Rock surrounded by soon-to-be deflowered virgins. When a nubile serving wench fell into his lap, Tyrion grinned. _Such is the burden of power_.

 

Though brave Jon Connington raised his great love’s son to the Iron Throne, he died days after the coronation, engulfed in grey and misery. Thus, with Westeros at war with Death itself, the Hand’s Chain once again draped around the neck of Tyrion Lannister. Despite troubles and horrors that still plagued the kingdoms, with a swarthy seductress now nibbling on his neck, Tyrion found it hard to dwell upon such misery. The maid bit at his earlobe, causing his manhood to surge. Though he wished to taste her sweet nectar, more pressing matters concerned his Handship tonight. _Tyrion Lannister—whoremonger, kinslayer, and turncloak—must dutifully serve the Iron Throne._

Tyrion placed his hands upon her hips, craning his neck so as to whisper in her eye, “my lady, I fear I must ask you to remove yourself from my growing cock. Contrary to popular belief, my devotion to the Crown comes before my lecherous proclivities. Thus, my duty trumps the needs of your pretty purse.” 

A single tear rolled down her soft check as the dark-skinned beauty pouted her full, red lips. As the indiscernible foreign words flowed forth from her tongue, Tyrion saw the calculating mind of a behind this facade of heartbreak.

_A huntress denied her trophy, yet still hungry for the kill. This one will go far._

“Give me until sun up, and if I am not too drunk to stand at attention, you may slay your lion then.” Tyrion gave her a wide grin, the trick of the candlelight amplifying his own monstrous disfigurements. To her credit, the wench barely flinched. _I should offer up a prayer to the Red God for bringing so many of his devoted followers to my bedchambers._

As she left to stalk other prey, Bronn huffed. “If you didn’t fancy the girl, you should of let her come sit upon my lap.”

The consummate cutthroat, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, appeared immortal. The stress brought on by shifting loyalties, betrayals for blood, and conspiracies for coin, did not grey a single hair on the man's head. Across the table, Tyrion the saw the same lean, wolfish killer, not aged a single day.

 

“If your own considerable wealth and perfectly present nose cannot woe a woman to your lap, then perhaps you should just return to the bed of your dim, plump wife.”

Ser Bronn howled with laughter, “or perhaps I'll add a few more singers to the stew. How much gold would you give for the tongue of the fool who wrote the ‘Stunted Cub’?”

“Let them sing of my villainy, for then all will know beyond a shadow of a doubt that a Lannister _truly_ pays his debts.”

Tyrion did not mean it as threat, however, for a brief instance, Bronn’s smile turned to grimace. Tyrion enjoyed watching his once wayward sellsword squirm. In truth though, Bronn did not need to fear reprisal from Tyrion. _What did that pretty little Tyrell tell me once? ‘When a sun sets, no candle can replace it?’_ Tyrion raised his stunted hand, signaling to the barman for more wine. _After basking in the glow of Cersei’s rotted head upon a spike, all other acts of vengeance taste of ash in comparison._

“Enough Bronn, consider your debt void.” _I need only a sword, not a friend._

 

“Much obliged, m’lord.” The hungry grin returned to his face, “Now we be on the Crown’s business, you say? Funny, I didn’t know copious amounts of such fine vintages went along with such royal business.” Bronn’s eyes began to wonder back towards the foreign huntress.

 

“‘Copious’? Fancy word for sell sword.”

 

His grin now spread from ear to ear,“ Well, you’ve got me spending time with fancy folks, again.” He raised his glass for a toast, “and it’s _Ser_ Bronn, m’lord.”

 

“Well _Ser_ Bronn, we aren’t exactly on the Crown’s business, yet our business doubtlessly concerns the Crown.” Another serving girl finally arrived with a fresh pitcher, her full bosom bounced as she pranced towards their table. While the pink glow of her exposed orbs entranced Bronn, Tyrion’s mind drifted elsewhere. _The distracting company of whores might just lose me Casterly Rock--father must be laughing from the very pits of hell._ Disappointed, the buxom barmaid returned to the crowd when Tyrion failed to produce any coin. He reached for the fresh pitcher. _Cunt may dull the senses, but the right amount of wine will sharpen the mind_.

 

“We must speak with Salai the Braavosi,” Tyrion continued as he raised his glass in return, “I need to inquire about news from the East.”

 

At the mention of the Mad Braavosi, Bronn grimaced and spat, “why do we need to speak with that cheat?”

 

Tyrion chuckled at the pettiness, “must a man be a cheat just because he beats you at cards?”

 

“A man is a cheat when he beats _everyone_ at cards. I hear tell he uses black magic to beguile the dealer himself.” Bronn slouched in his seat as if his maester just gave him a scolding.

 

 _He beguiles the deck, perhaps_. Though the Braavosi stood nearly six feet tall and as pretty as a maid, Tyrion saw in him a kindred spirit. _A man taken with all worldly pursuits—be they of the flesh or of the mind._ However, while Tyrion degraded himself for the satisfaction of completion, Salai lived only for the rush of the deed, caring little for the reward.

 

Tyrion decided to humor the sullen sword, “Magic, you say?”

 

“Aye, magic. The foreign bastard bewitches the very cards.” Bronn huffed.

 

 _To the enlightened, mathematics is magic_. It cost nearly a thousands golden dragons at the gambling house, but Tyrion finally divined the Mad Braavosi’s methods. Salai orders his army of street urchins to latch themselves to the cards tables, betting paltry wagers. All the while, his foot soldiers keep a running count, assigning positive and negative values to the cards as they turn. Once this value reaches a maximum, their glorious captain falls upon his prey. Ever the benevolent leader, Salai bequeaths all of the night’s bounty to his loyal and lowly subjects. _He feeds off of the hunt alone, but he does not let the meat go to spoil._

“Perhaps he can teach you a spell or two, Ser Bronn, because he approaches.”

As the wind carried the bird, so to did the music carry Salai through the crowd. By the look of his dark complexion, Tyrion surmised that the man hailed far further east than the cold and sunless stone harbors of Bravos. Yet, his true country of origin meant little. Only the secrets he traded in matter.

 

Once he arrived at their table, Salai fell like a feather upon his seat. “My dear lord Lannister, do my eyes deceive me, or am I sitting in the presence of the celebrated Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?”

 

Rather than reply, Bronn simply remained silent. Instead, the up-jumped sellsword drank healthily from his cup, fixing his cold, dark eyes upon their guest. Such mockery would cost any other man his throat, but Bronn knew that Salai’s sword was even sharper than his tongue.

“It grieves me that you will not be accompanying us into the Riverlands,” Tyrion interjected. “However, what lies between the legs of Nymeria Sand will certainly be more hospital than what awaits Lord Snow and his rangers.”

“My absence is for the best,” only the luminous glimmer of his false outshined Salai’s smile, “for I do not wish to be present when Jon takes your little head.” His voice began to sing with false sadness, as if he spent a lifetime upon the stages of Braavos. “You see, good Lord Lannister, I’ve grown rather fond of you in our short time together. While amateurish at best, you take to the noble pursuit of science like a pimpled virgin to a whore's naval.” He hoisted his glass in Tyrion’s honor, “your enthusiasm will be sorely missed.”

“That Jon Snow, such a prickly bastard isn’t he?”

“How dare you, _villain_ , Jon is a noble lord now.” Salai pointed his finger at the mass of scar and bone where a nose once stood, “you will address him as lord _Crowstark_ , or not at all.”

A silence filled the air between the two students of pleasure. Then, in unison, they both collapsed into laughter.

“Now, Tyrion, certainly you did not seek me out to discuss your doomed flight amongst my fellow crows. Speak true, what is your need of me?” Salai asked, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes.

“Secrets and whispers, my friend.”

“Oh so we ‘friends’ now, Tyrion?” Salai mused between sips.

“You wound me, Salai. Did you not just speak of your fondness for me?”

“Fondness does not mean friendship, I’m afraid,” Salai laughed. “After all, can the cunning shark ever truly see _a friend_ in the hapless remora?”

 _There you go again, Braavosi, showing of the chink in your immaculate armor._ Although the brilliance of Salai’s mind eclipsed Tyrion’s own, the man’s pride would inevitably bring his doom.

“If you will not keep me informed out of friendship, then perhaps you will keep me informed out of spite.” Tyrion reached across the table, wine in hand, to peak both Salai’s cup as well as his interest. “The more secrets gained from you, the less the kingdoms and myself must rely upon Lord Varys.”

At the mention of the Spider, Salai smiled. _While the Braavosi might be fond of the dwarf, he despises the eunuch._

“Well I do love to sow a little chaos amongst those pretty little birds,” Silai placed his hand above the rim of his cup, preventing Tyrion from pouring the wine. _He thirsts for a different form of degradation tonight._ “What whispers do you wish to hear?”

“Whispers of from the Titan’s lips.” Tyrion smiled as he poured himself a healthy cup.

“Must you two speak in such twisted tongues?” Bronn murmured, though his protests went ignored.

“Aside from the Conclave, little and less.” Salai sighed.

“The Conclave?” _My worst fears come to life_. “The Iron Bank convenes the Conclave and Varys refrains from telling his king?”

The Braavosi seemed to enjoy Tyrion’s thinly masked panic, “Oh Varys will certainly tell your King, but only once the time is ripe. The Spider survives by making himself appear indispensable.”

“What word from the Conclave?” Tyrion continued, trying to keep his voice steady.

“My ears do not penetrate through iron walls, I’m afraid. Fear not though, I doubt they met to discuss funding a conquest of the Westerlands.” Salai laughed, his sapphire eye goading Tyrion, “Come now, your most eminent Handship, do not pretend as though you sought me out on behalf of the Crown.”

Tyrion shifted in his seat uncomfortably. _Glad one of us can laugh at my demise._ Of all the fresh exiles born from the Targaryen Restoration, most once swore oaths to his father. By the same token, most of the newly made lords now swore oaths to him. Though the realm currently knew peace, Tyrion’s lordship lived and died by the mercurial temperament of sell swords, with a vengeful score of nobility likely plotting half a world away. _Though my dear lords no longer hoist Bittersteel's standard, the Conclave can still purchase plenty of reputable mercenary companies—some more Westerosi than others._

“I told you not to fear, little Tyrion,” Salai went to stand from the table, “the Conclave will not be so foolish as to declare war. Any sellsword bought will go towards protecting the transfer of gold reserves, or perhaps towards quelling the riots stirred by their foreign branches being burned to kindle.” Salai gazed out across the tavern, the huntress’ figure now reflected in his false eye. “I believe they must update their quaint little slogan with the times. Perhaps, ‘the Iron Bank will have its due—unless, you ride upon dragons. Then in that case, all is forgiven’”

“A bit long, I’m afraid.” Tyrion replied, dryly.

Sinking further into the numbing solace of his own wine, Tyrion failed to see the viper strike. With the deft hands of a pickpocket, Salai abruptly snatched Bronn’s cup from the man’s grip. As the hero of the Blackwater looked on with murderous rage, the Mad Braavosi drained it to the last drop. He then gave his victim a good-natured smile, though Tyrion saw that the fangs dripped with venom. “With that, I am off. If you can tear yourself away from the royal gayety on the marrow, perhaps you can join me as I explain the wonders of irrigation to Lady Nymeria and her flock fools.”

He tossed the empty cup back to Bronn although his brilliantly mismatched eyes never left Tyrion’s own. “Regardless, my _friend_ , you should not let past sins haunt you so.”

As the Braavosi evaporated into the chaotic clamor of cups that filled the tavern, Tyrion felt the familiar stab of regret: a throbbing pain right between his hardened steel plates.


	5. Jon II

Though the light of the morning fast approached, Jon waited for Ser Brynden to join him in his chambers. An hour or so previously, a lonely crow greeted the river lords under the watchful eyes of the Seven. Jon remembered staring at the sacred stone effigies encircling the Gods Gate as the ragged band of fallen lords passed beneath them. _Do their gods not see how they suffer?_

 

Far away from the riot of flesh taking place in the bowls of Flea Bottom, the procession had made their way through the near-empty cobbled streets in silence. Neither Ser Brynden nor Jon wished to exchange heavy words in front of Tully Bannermen. _Words that turn the tongue pale and sickly_ , Jon thought _. Words that will name us kinslayers in the eyes of our family_ , _both living and long at rest._

 

Jon remained seated at his modest desk when Ser Brynden entered. He swept his long dark hair from his eyes and then motioned for the weathered knight to take a seat. _Don’t stand to greet him_ , Jon told to himself, _the man despises false courtesies._

 

Considering Jon spent little time in the Capitol, his desk was bare save for simple clay glasses and a pitcher of wine, of which Ser Brynden helped himself to immediately.

 

The legendary Blackfish greeted Jon with sparse words and stiff nod, “Snow, how fair the men?”

 

 _The man despises false courtesies_. Along with Salai and few lieutenants, Ser Brynden Tully stood as one of the few men who refused to use Jon’s lordly name. Most of the court spat the word “Snow” behind his back while hiding their disdain beneath silk and noble gallantry. Ser Brynden never used the bastard name as a slight, however. Half a bastard himself in the eyes of many, Ser Brynden knew that Jon cared little for titles so the Blackfish never bothered bestow them. Perhaps the old knight even recognized Jon’s strange attachment to the taint of “Snow”—his last link to the fading memories of a life all but lost.

 

“They fair well, Ser Brynden. Their swords remain sharp and the coming of spring has seen them feed. One thousand and five-hundred rangers remain in the service, a thousand of which will depart with us to the Riverlands.”

 

Ser Brynden’s eyes hardened at the mention of his ruined home. _The man cannot grieve; he can only rage._ While the old knight still stood proud, the Wall drained him of his vigor. Wrinkles, like rivers of passing time, meandered across his skin. His once peppery hair now appeared brittle and grey. Nonetheless, though weakened by war, he still spoke with conviction—“I will not be accompanying you to the Twins, Jon.”

 

 _I expected as much._ “I understand, Ser Bryden. In that case, I will leave you in charge of the rangers that will remain in King’s Landing.”

 

Ser Brynden closed his eyes and exhaled, his shield wrought from rage slowly dissolving. “I will follow this order; however, it must be my last, Jon.” When he opened his eyes, Jon saw the tears now forming upon trembling eyelashes.

 

 _He knows what must be done_. “I understand that, as well.” _I will not force you to become a kinslayer. I alone will carry that stain._

 

Looking upon the storied knights so shattered by tragedy threatened to break Jon’s own resolve. _The woman always despised me yet my father loved her. My siblings loved her as well—doesn’t that alone make her my kin?_ “Ser Brynden you must for—“

 

“Enough, Jon. In this matter, you need not seek forgiveness.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “My lady-niece died at the Twins three years ago.”

 

 _She died along with the Young Wolf…my brother._ To honor Robb’s memory, Jon needed to lay the mother’s soul at rest beside the son’s. _But what of my soul?_

 

As Jon wrestled with his own damnation, Ser Brynden began to laugh bitterly. Although he looked straight at Jon, his eyes seemed unfocused. “The first thing I killed was no kind of thing at all. It was an enemy soldier. Which is a hell of a lot easier to say than the first thing I ever killed was a man. Not until I looked into the dead eyes of the _true_ enemy did see through this lie. I murdered men and called it duty, Jon,” the knight held up his hand to quiet Jon’s attempted protest, “No, Jon. Call it what you like, but I now see my legacy for what it is.”

 

Jon silently contemplated these words. He remembered driving Longclaw through Halfhand, he remembered cradling Ygritte as she died in his arms. _How much blood stains my own hands?_ He absentmindedly flexed his fists, futilely attempting to wring out the taint left behind by the killing. I _acted to protect the realm,_ he told himself, _I never killed with malice in my heart._ However, the quite voice from the shadows could not be silence. _The wildlings fled from the common foe only to be met by your sword_ , the voice whispered, _they escaped one monster only to die at the hands of another._

“What you must do is not murder, however. What you must do is a mercy.” The knight said as he wiped away his tears. The gruff tone of a soldier returned to his voice, “Now, I ask that you release me from my the service so that I may serve as Lady Sansa’s sworn shield for what time remains to me.”

 

“Does Sansa know of this?” Jon asked.

 

“No, I planned on making my request once she arrives in King’s Landing. She just gave birth to her second child not four moons ago, so her escort moves slowly along the King’s Road. I expect her to be here by midweek at the latest.”

 

 _Midweek? By then I’ll just be leaving for the Riverlands_. “Perhaps I should wait—“

 

Ser Brynden silenced Jon’s plea “, No, you mustn’t wait for her, Jon.” much like Ser Barristan, the Blackfish’s bright blue Tully eyes reflected the sea pain that only came with age, “tell me--if you saw her, would you still possess the strength to do what must be done?”

 

Jon knew that once he looked upon Sansa Stark—the shining visage of her late mother—his sword would fail. _She will truly hate me for what I must do_ , Jon thought sadly, _but what sort of man would I be if I sent the faceless headsmen in my stead?_

 

 _Not a man_ , the stranger sounded from the depths once more, a _monster._

“Fine, I will not speak with Sansa.” _Though by rights, she should be given the chance to look upon the face of her mother’s executioner._ Jon swallowed the foul taste of duplicity, “As for your service with the rangers, I see no need to release you from anything. The weight of those vows dissolved along with the Last Winter. You are free to do as wish, my friend.”

 

“I thank you, Jon.” The old knight extended his hand. Jon reached out and grasped his wrist. Strong and firm, Ser Brynden grip closed like a vice. Once they touched, the old knight’s expression softened. He looked upon Jon as a father would look upon a son. Both lived as shadows eclipsed by greater brothers, and both now toil as slaves bound to oaths sworn by dead men. _What a pair we make_ , Jon thought to himself.

 

They sat in silence for a moment, both gazing into the mirror of time—one seeing the boy he once was, the other seeing soldier he will inevitably become. Ser Brynden went to stand, pulling Jon to his feet. “You must promise me, Jon. Swear that you will not let them change you.” He stared intently, each word carrying the heaviness of his heart, “when the Wall fell and all manner of evil spilled forth, it was you who pushed them back. Not The Mother of Dragons or The Prince of Promise—but _you_. Never forget this, for these dragons are not built for peace. When they set you upon the shores of Tyrosh or the black walls of Volantis, they will tell you that you are honor bound to bring death in their name.” The old knight’s grip loosened upon Jon’s arm, “Your father was an honorable man, as was your brother, and how many people died because of it?” Ser Brynden paused for a moment. He did not mean to speak ill of his former king, the boy they called they Young Wolf who never lost a battle yet died with a dagger through his stomach all the same. They spoke very little of Robb. Jon feared that even whispering his name aloud would tear open the festering scar left by his absence. _Best to just let the ghosts fade._

 

Ser Brynden smirked, “I used to spit upon oathbreakers—the filth who dare call themselves knights. However, now I find my thoughts dwelling upon the Kingslayer, that golden sister-fucking whoreson all draped in white. I ask you, is a man who profanes his blade with the blood of his king truly so cursed? What if that man sheathed his sword and kept true to his vows? Is a king’s life really worth more than a thousand corpses? This I do not know, but there is one thing I do know—your soul is yours alone. When your bones grow brittle and you can no longer grip a sword, when the Stranger comes to greet you upon your deathbed, you cannot blame vows sworn to some king for the taint upon your own soul.”

 

 _You speak of souls, Ser Brynden, but mine vanished in the fires of the Red Woman._ Jon wished to speak, but his words failed him, “Ser Brynden, I—“

 

“No need, Jon,” the Blackfish released his grip, “I only ask that you think on my words.” He paused for moment, looking into the pool of wine still in his cup. Then, with a resigned sigh, he drained the contents, “I will look for you on the tourney grounds, Lord Snow.”

 

“I do not compete in tourneys, Ser Brynden.”

 

“Ah, yes of course,” the Blackfish gave Jon a one last sad smile, stained red by the wine, “tourneys and fair maidens are for the children of summer, not for the men who still live in winter.”

 

“The winter is over, my friend.”

 

“Do you truly believe that, Jon Snow?" the knight placed the cup upon the table, his sword hand vibrating like the steel it once bore. "The sun shines, the wheat grow high, and children run laughing in the field. Yet, if this is truly summer, why do I still feel so cold?”

 

the words of House Stark reverberated through Jon’s mind. The beating of his heart slowed as his blood went cold. _You are right, Ser Brynden. Winter is Coming, and I fear this winter will never cease._


	6. A Few Prologues More: the Other Red Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should be treated as a prologue to the nth degree. When I originally started thinking about this story, the tale began immediately after Jon's stabbing. However, the more I wrote, rewrote, and then threw in the trash, the more I realized that filling in the gaps of an ongoing story didn't feel right to me. That story belongs wholly to GRRM (legally speaking, it all belongs to GRRM, but we live in the Age of the Internet, am I right?). What comes after--or in some cases, what comes before, when you replace X with Y, or ship A with B--may very well belong to the collective imagination of the fans. 
> 
> Though my original prologue won't move the story forward, it might provide a little insight into state of affairs we currently find ourselves in. Considering I won't be able to post anything new for sometime and it seems pointless to waste a perfectly good piece of story just because its no longer totally relevant, here is how it all began...

A bead of sweat ran down her forehead in defiance of the cold, harsh wind. _The Lord of Light guides me. Through him I gave life to this boy, and through him all is possible._ A blanket of snow and ice buffeted her face, yet she never saw so clearly. She walked upon the compacted white mass as if walking on a cloud.

 _How foolish of me to ever give my light to that false king. I allowed the glint of his iron will to blind me, the ferocity of his conviction to seduce me_. She smiled to herself as her copper hair, like flames spitting forth from a furnace, whipped about in the wind. _Stannis Baratheon: Aziz Ahor reborn._ A wry laugh escaped her lips, _nothing more than another petty lord lashing out like a babe denied the breast._

Now, however, she served the true savior. Though broken and weak at the moment, power radiated from him like the rays of the summer sun. She looked back at the broken boy as her heart jumped from her chest. _The boy stirs_. From underneath the mound of furs covering him, she heard a faint crying out. She hesitated for a moment. _No not now. We must push forward; the sea cannot wait much longer._ She then quickened her pace. _For the night is dark and full of terrors._

Even her companion, the dim giant Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun, seemed spurned on by the Red God’s flames. Pulling the ox cart that contained her savior, this hulking mass of muscle and hair cut through storm like a sword through flesh. _R’hlorr choose the most peculiar instruments._ With her own eyes, the woman witnessed the aftermath of this beast’s rage. When she went to tell the boy of what she saw in the flame, she stumbled upon a slaughter. Blood splattered the walls and screams echoed in the halls as Wun Wun tore the duplicitous Night’s Watchmen limb from limb. Using a dismembered leg as a club, the giant hammered poor Bowen’s skull until only a pulp of brains, bone, and blood remained. Another would-be usurper laid on the ground, shrieking in pain, as he futilely attempted to shovel his eviscerated innards back into his dying body. Through the clamor of the massacre, her eyes found him just as the last breath of life left his body. Even as chaos reigned all around her, she calmly knelt by his side, bent over him, and said the words. _Doubt never entered my mind._ Instantly, his eyes shot open. Great red pools of fire looked up at her as the heat of R’hllor emanated through the room. Then, as quick as the came alive, the great fires faded. The boy’s body seized and his eyes turned to a deep purple. He shock uncontrollably before collapsing into her arms. “ _Do not fear Jon Snow, this night will soon be at an end_ ,” she had whispered in his ear.

They fled Castle Black with surprising ease. The slaughter that took place in the Lord Commanders chambers spread like a plague through the Watch’s ranks. Amidst Watchmen butchering wildlings, wildlings butchering Watchmen, and Queen's Men butcher them both, no one seemed to notice a woman cloaked in red and blood stained giant walking out the Black Gate. Wun Wun cradled Jon Snow in His massive arms until she found suitable transpiration by the deserted horse tough. With surprising care, the huge creature lowered Jon Snow into the cart, gently wrapping him in mold-ridden furs.

And the grace of her Red God did not abandon them once the made for the eastern sea. They traveled leagues—through wind, storm, and snow—in what seemed like only a few days. They did not stop for food, sleep, or even rest. _The Red God sustains us,_ she thought as she glided through pelting snow. Though the dead stirred north of the Wall, her company went unmolested.

 _When he awakes, even he will not deny the Lord of Lights power._ She listened carefully to the sounds of life coming from the cart. With every whimper of pain, her excitement grew. _This night will end, Jon Snow, and I will show you a world beyond what you once thought possible._ A wild lust stirred within her. _I will offer myself to you: I alone will guide you into the light. I will be both your mother and your wife. I will suckle you from my breasts and embrace you in my bed. I will be everything to you, Jon Snow._

The sound of the sea tore her from this trance. The fire in her veins burned hotter. The woman and her ragged party had emerged from the labyrinthine mass of pine into a wide open clearing facing a raging ocean. Masses of water formed waves as tall as the giant himself, crashing upon jagged rock. Previously covered by the dark shade of the forest canopy, her eyes struggled to adjust to the open air _._ She stretched out her arms, basking in the natural light. _A new day rises._ The sea’s anger did not deter her-- _all things must bow to the lord of light. Do not despair, Jon Snow, my faith will be our ship.  
_

She turned around and began walking back towards the boy. When she reached the cart, she gently placed her hand on Wun Wun’s massive forearm. _Warm to the touch._ Like a well-trained hound, the giant heeled to his mistress. Though she knew he understood few words, she began speaking to him.

“What a wondrous creature,” she breathed as she looked up into his blue, childlike eyes, “you fail to comprehend the magnitude of your actions. Without you noble giant, all would be lost. Kings, lords, and peasants alike will sing of you bravery and loyal service to the One True God. How you rescued their savior from the knives of his treacherous sworn brothers, how you carried him through the evil darkness of winter,” then the sweetness left her voice, “ and how in a final act of devotion, you offered your own flesh to the flame.”

Her fire no longer required prayer or kindling. _I need only to look upon this beast born from ice and darkness, and the flames of R'hlorr will engulf him. Such is my power now._ As she grasped her gem, the air itself began to boil. Without even a cry or a hint of resistance, Wun Wun fell to his knees. His mane of hair, as thick and long as a mammoth's pelt, began to smoke and singe. _The fair winds bought with this blood will carry us to Asshai, rally The Lords army, and return us to this frozen hell scape. And you, Jon snow, the true Azor Ahai, will command the legions of light against the Others and their army of rotting dead._ She raised her hands above her head, parting the clouds and allowing the full force of the sun to shine through. Her copper hair shot towards the sky, dancing in the windless air. _We all must choose: Light or dark, fire or ice._

Suddenly, a cold descended upon her, extinguishing the burgeoning fire. The clouds returned--dark, ominous, and full of rage--ready to punish the fool who dared to banish them. Snow cascaded from the sky and a great wind overturned the cart, heaving Jon Snow from the bundles of fur. For the first time since arriving at the Wall, the woman felt the bite of the cold.

They came in droves, spilling from the surrounding trees. The rotting bodies of men and all manner of beasts descended upon them. Wun Wun shot to his feet, charging head long into the marching dead. He grasped a man by the waist and squeezed so hard that he severed his legs from his body. But when the man's torso fell to the ground, he simply continued to crawl towards them, his pale blue eyes fixed upon Jon Snow. The enraged giant continued his assault, clubbing the wrights with the limp bodies of their dead compatriots. But unlike poor Bowen, the wrights did not disintegrate into masses of blood and guts. Instead, they just continued their slow march, unaffected by maiming or the loss of limbs.

With a blood-curdling scream, Wun Wun finally fell as the tusk of a mammoth pierced him through his great heart. She now felt as she did when she stood upon the auction block, a scared little girl waiting to be sold like a piece of fine meat. She felt the fear that ruled her before R'hlorr brought her to the light; the fear that crippled her into submission _. Why? Why abandon me now?_ She panicked when she saw the figure mounted upon the great decaying mammoth. With a translucent body carved from towering block of ice, shirtless despite the cold, the true enemy marshaled his horde. Two piercingly brilliant blue eyes, as dead as sea of creatures bearing down on her, met hers.

However, just as all seemed lost, the fire returned to her, surging through her body like dragon's breath. But the panic still held her. The flame was to great. pools of melting snow spread around her. She writhed in pain as the blood in her veins burned like a vicious venom, The fire within her grew out of control. From the corner of her eyes she saw Jon Snow, her savior, stumble blindly towards the sea—It was then that she understood. _R'hllor, The Lord of Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow requires a sacrifice. I now offer up my body to the flame._

like the heat from volcanoes that burned Old Valyria to ash, her blood oozed forth like magma from beneath her skin, melting her flesh. Her crimson robes burned away to nothingness; her once solid red gold choker dripped down her bare, burnt breasts. Standing there naked, her skin charred, bone beginning peak out underneath rapidly fading muscle, the red woman smiled as Jon Snow, standing on the shores of the eastern sea, looked back at her.

 _Do not fear Jon Snow, this night will end._ And with that, a great fire Burst forth from her. Like moths to the flame, the dead marched headlong into the all-consuming blaze. The monster wrought from cold evil, the servant to the god who must not be name, let out piercing screech as the pure light of R'hllor rendered him to dust. In an instant, the great inferno vanished and the woman fell to the ground. Haggard, ragged breaths flowed through her molten teeth. Her lips, once red and full, had melted away along with her once beautiful, unblemished skin. Flayed by her God's flame, only bare, blackened, and bloody muscle remained. Jon Snow.

 _Azor Ahai. If you succeed, if you believe, you will vanquish this impeding doom. The world will grow old and will know true peace. And the faithful will pray to Melisandre for guidance and the faithless we burn in her fires. Melisandre: the last and greatest sacrifice._ Her lungs gave out as she departed into darkness.


	7. The Sun Queen

Though her face remained as still as stone, her heart broke for the ruined thing that sat before her. _Your scales once glowed a brilliant gold, dear cousin. So bright and beautiful, you threatened to outshine the very sun. Tell me: how could love poison you so?_

 

“Forgive, _my Queen_ ,” spite hung upon the false courtesy like an odious stench as the tarnished snake coiled in her chair, “I thought we were not to break our fast for another two hours.”

 

“Two more hours to spend amongst the filth, I suppose?” Arianne replied, revealing neither concern nor chastisement in her voice.

 

The daughter of the Viper smiled, baring her fangs. _They have yellowed_. Worry threatened to erode the queen’s hardened exterior. The closest of her cousins to her own age, Arianne always envied Nymeria’s effortless beauty. Arianne spent her childhood praying for what the Gods gave her cousin at birth. _And how you have squandered their gifts._ Blood-red veins, thick and angry, encircled her dark irises. Dusky, heavy bags hung beneath her eyelids, despoiling her Volantese skin. Her full lips, once lustrous and alluring, now appeared cracked and pale. _Didn’t your father teach you cousin? Addiction is the slowest of poisons._

“It seems the poppy dens of Flea Bottom are the only place I can find a bit of quiet, for the whispers that fill these halls keep me awake at night.” the haze of the previous evening robbed her laugh of its richness, “the gossip of your cuckolding at the hands of that rose bitch still rings in my ears.”

 

_The bite stings less when administered by such a frightened beast._

“Is that what the chambermaids are saying?” Arianne chuckled, indifferently. “I invite a dishonored lady and her bastard sons into my house, not into my husband’s bed.” She placed a fig between her lips, “not into _my_ bed.”

 

Before Nymeria could spit her venom, the other snakes slithered into the garden. Obara Sand, the oldest and most unpolished of Prince Oberyn’s treasures, stood tall beside the ivy-riddled marble pillar. As if walking forth form the morning itself, Obara basked in a radiance she appeared unaccustomed to. The vibrant-orange glow of the setting sun unfurled across the gleaming copper scales of her armor. The flash of the morning even managed to brighten her tightly bound, rat-brown hair.

 

In Obara’s shadow stood Tyene Sand—the moth dancing about the flame. Dressed in a clinging cream gown with long sleeves of pale Myrish silk, her golden hair braided into intricate ringlets, Tyene shined like the Maid herself.

 

Obara’s close-set eyes fixed upon her wayward sister as she strode past Arianne’s guards and beneath the veranda, her golden cloak billowing behind her. Reaching Nymeria, Obara gripped her by the shoulders, fingers barring into flesh, and wrenched her sister’s face towards her own.

 

“You pitiful fool,” Obara spat, fury spilling forth with every word, “you inhale that poison, wasting away like some cowardly whore.”

 

“I missed you as well, dear sister,” Nymeria cooed, “I did not partake in the poison alone, though. Quite a few of your precious Gold Cloaks joined in my ecstasy.”

 

Obara’s grip tightened, “you bitch...”

 

“You took her daggers, I trust.” Tyene emerged from Obara’s wake, taking her seat beside Arianne. She folded her hands up the stone table, the brilliant white of her lace floating upon the sea of pale grey.

 

“I charged Ser Archibald with the task,” Arianne replied, signaling a serving maid to bring a fresh teapot. “I’m sure he provided the most thorough search his vows would allow.”

 

Arianne heard the rattle of armor from the entrance of the Veranda as Ser Archibald, the strapping hulk of a knight, shuffled his feet. Though he still wore his battered helm, Arianne could envision the mortified blush now spreading across his face.

 

“One of those men is the Yronwood boy?” Obara peered over towards the rust-ridden sentries standing beside the lush, billowing fern, just now noticing their dented armor and tattered cloaks.

 

“Yes, and dear Daemon as well.” _Ser Daemon Sand_ , Arianne ignored the sudden warmth that coursed through her veins. _He envisioned speaking his vows to me, beneath the dome of the Sept with candles lit for the Mother and the Maiden_. Sadly for Daemon, high lords care little for the dreams of bastards, no matter how gallant, when they vie for cold thrones and golden crowns _. Instead, he swore his sword to his king, beneath the dark void of winter with torches lit only for the Warrior._ The low heat dissipated as quickly as it came on—a fondness and nothing more.

 

“Why dress them in that iron motely?”

 

“"I couldn't very well have sent them to fetch your sister all clad white, now could I? If a commoner sees the shimmering white of the Kingsguard, they know royalty cannot be far away.” Arianne sipped from her teacup, inhaling the rich floral aroma of the rising steam.  
“Where the royal blood goes, so goes the Kingsguard. Together, Aegon and I created a family. Like it or not, dear cousins, you are all part of that family.” She then smiled placidly at her kin, attempting to dull the severity of her words, “and we must not shame our family needlessly.”

 

“A wise decision, Annie,” Tyene chirped, her soft pink lips hovering above the rim of own cup, “why must we let the godly burn for the sins faithless?” Though she spoke with the sweetness of a songbird, her tongue dripped with acid, “like any good meastre, we must purge the petulance from the wound.”

 

“You speak as though I am not here,” Nymeria growled, “leveling threats and accusations…how clean is your own soul, sister?”

 

“ _You_ are not here, Nymeria.” Tyene’s pale blue eyes began to water, threatening to dampen her porcelain cheeks, “I do not know this decrypted slave that sits before me, but I _do_ know that she is no sister of mine. I pray upon bloodied knees for you to find absolution, that you go to seek salvation through guidance of the holiest brothers at the Quiet Isles, as I’ve instructed.”

 

“A plea for the Silent Sisters, again?” Nymeria guffawed. “You speak of sin and absolution, but we both know father taught you of his poisons as much as he taught I,” her bloodshot eyes darted from accuser to accuser, “and shame? What of Arianne’s plan to hand over the throne to her husband’s whore?”

 

“Though I am loathed to admit it,” Obara said, teeth clenched, “I to am concerned with you bringing the rose bitch here, as well. I am told one was born dim, still, Reach men see the other bastard as the Knight of Flowers reborn.”

 

 _If I am to be the grass that hides the viper, I must find myself better snakes_. “Like your drug-addled sister, you fret needlessly. Her bastards, no matter how handsome, will not inherit before either of my daughters. The ascension of Queen Daenerys undid those archaic rules put in place by a blistered and shriveled king.” _My daughters will inherit Iron Throne as I inherited Sunspear, regardless of how many bastards emerge from the eggs of whores._

 

Obara would not be dissuaded. “After the years of slaughter and winter now at an end, most now remember Redgrass Fields as little more than a skirmish. Few of those flowery lords would balk at the idea of putting a bastard upon the throne.”

 

_Is this how it felt father? Being forced to coddle an impetuous daughter along with your arrogant nieces, all while meticulously moving your pawns across the board?_

“Obara, you need not remind me of the horrors of winter, for all those wars kept my husband from our marital bed.” As she spoke, Arianne saw her cousin’s thick jaw go slack in confusion. _Born only for the battlefield, not the bedroom_. “I conceived Joanna on our wedding night, and little Naerys not months after Aegon returned from the Wall. If foolish high lords believe that only a male heir will do, then, I assure you, the realm will receive a male heir.”

 

Obara still looked unconvinced. Her jaw line tightened once more and her brows furrowed in determination. She appeared as though she meant to will her queen into capitulation. Rather than succumbing, Arianne only sighed. _How I used to admire your bravery, Obara, before realized the truth—the spear only hid a girl still clinging to her mother’s corpse._

“Regardless, both you and Nymeria misunderstand my purpose. My courting of Margaery Tyrell and her baseborn sons will be my means to Lord Crowstark.”

 

“Jon Snow? Have you gone mad? What use can that whoreson of a crow serve?” Obara spat.

_How often we mistake boisterous blather for declarations of daring._ When darkness reigned in the north and fabled evils descended from mountains of shattered ice, Obara did not meet the true enemy with spear and whip. When anarchy turned to victory and cries of “Crowstark” rippled through the air, Obara did not weep as the beams of morning light danced across her bloodied face _. No, Obara hunted Lannister loyalists in the south, far from the horror of Jon Snow’s war._

 

“If all you desire is the bastard’s ear, why invite the rose bitch all the way to King’s Landing?” Nymeria snickered, her lashes fluttering as she fought off fatigue. “I thought you a maverick beneath the covers, cousin, why not just invite Lord Snow between your legs? Her hands shook violently, the clatter of her cup intermingling with the buzz of insects who danced from fauna to fauna. “On second thought, though, how do plan on wooing the bastard brother when you can’t even please your husband?”

 

Arianne ignored her cousin’s vile accusation. “Fear not, I rule my husband in the bedroom.” _You must spend precious few nights in these halls, dear cousin, for you do not hear how the king moans my name._ Arianne accepted Aegon’s love as truth, one of the few truths within the great lie that was life in the capitol. Amidst the ruin of battered and burnt stone, she first stood in awe of her dragon. Her Dornish company arrived at Storm’ s End following the siege. She remembered the fear she felt as their caravan navigated the smoking remnants of battle. From behind the lace curtain of her liter, the smell of blood heavy in her nostrils, Arianne tried to imagine the beast capable of such a massacre. Once she emerged for beneath her veil, however, her eyes met the Conqueror born again.

 

Aegon possessed the beauty of old Valyria. And yet he was entirely himself. Unique. His fair skin that now freckled in the summer. The lilac eyes that danced in the sun’s light. The strands of faded blue that littered his silver hair. The slant in his cheekbones that was such an eccentric mixture of noble refinement and exotic beauty. Aegon the Fifth—Aegon the Promised Prince—was a man wholly his own. For such a man, any woman would forgive two bastards. Aegon wept upon his confession, and like the gracious Mother, Arianne washed him of sin.

 

 _The king gave me his heart willingly, but he still guards his mind jealously._ Though a devoted husband and doting father, in matters of state, Aegon was a loving brother and dutiful nephew first and foremost. Arianne ruled his heart, but Queen Daenerys and Lord Snow held sway in his council chambers.

 

“Much like you sweet cousin,” Arianne continued, “Lyanna Stark birthed Lord Snow outside the marital bed. Tell me, don’t all bastards hold a place in their heart for their only true brethren? If we to show love to these Tyrell bastards, perhaps Lord Snow will bestow his favor upon us.”

 

“And why should we care about a northern dog’s favor?” Obara spat.

“Because,” Arianne replied, her patience trying, “My husband favors Lord Snow. Therefore, a friendship with Lord Snow will buy me my husband’s ear.” The queen adjusted the folds of her dress before pointing towards the now unconscious Nymeria. “Obara, please escort your sister to her chambers so that she may be made presentable for my princess’s name day.”

 

Though the glare in Obara’s eye looked mutinous, she did as instructed. Her faced remained stern as she lifted what remained of her beloved Nymeria from the table. Once Arianne sat alone with Tyene, she beckoned for her handmaids to bring the mirror.

 

As she stood, Arianne heard Tyene’s voice at her back, “Do not fret so much Annie, it will give you wrinkles. I understand the wisdom of your plotting even if my sisters are too thick.”

 

Arianne stood in front of the mirror, drinking in her reflection as her handmaids matched different dyed cloths to her olive complexion. “Obara may be right about the Reach’s willingness to back a bastard.” _All the more reason to court Jon Snow._ _Like when Aemon refused the crown in favor of his younger brother, Lord Crowstark will place Joanna upon the Iron Throne before evening stepping foot on the dais._ As her eyes wandered down her splendid curves, arriving at her own bountiful garden, her anxiety dissipated. _No, I will give my king a male heir and all of this planning will be proven meaningless._

She nodded when Cassella held the burgundy dress to her skin, “will Sarella be attending?”

 

“No,” Tyene replied, daintily pressing a handkerchief to her lips, “I thought it unwise to bring her, given her _relationship_ with that Braavosi demon.”

 

 _It’s for the best_ , Arianne thought, _better to publicly shun one cousin than to air sordid family rivalries in open court._

“Trystane will be attending as well,” Tyene added, “his party arrived late last night.”

 

Arianne frowned. _Surely my willful brother brought her with him, caring little for Lord Tyrion’s shame nor our need of Yornwood’s spears._ “Very well, if we can keep Trystane tame and Nymeria silent, today should make for a wonderful occasion. Tyene, be a dear and see to Nymeria. I hold little faith in Obara’s sense of fashion.”

 

Tyene smiled, “as my queen commands.”


	8. Errr Sorry, Not a Chapter...

If you're reading this you already know - I am an awful, procrastinating son of a bitch. For this, I am sincerely sorry. I once had high hopes for this fic. Alas, "Empire of Blood and Fire" has come to an unceremonious end...only to be reborn as "An Empire of Ash"! 

this rewrite has been long and bloody road. good notebooks lost to cold darkness of my closet. Hard drives smashed to smithereens upon my bathroom floor. ingenious plot twists swallowed by a haze of cheap booze and hard livin'. Yet I endured. I endured. 

I'm not sure if just I'm being overly critical of my own work, but I felt as though "Empire of Blood and Fire" just wasn't up to par. I'll be posting the first 2 chapters of "An Empire of Ash" (meaning significantly expanded and hopefully greatly improved Jon and Dany chapters) by Sunday. Bare in mind that I'm a second year law student so updates will be sporadic at best as this story progresses.

Abidingly yours,

Strangerinthealps7


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